The Weight of the Ocean

The night settled over Belize like a slow drag of cigarette smoke, thick, lingering,and curling into the corners where the streetlights couldn’t reach. The ocean stretched beyond Sam’s deck, black silk against the shore, waves rolling in slow, steady sighs. A bottle of whiskey sat between them, sweating in the heat. Their glasses were nearly empty.

Sam poured another round, the amber liquid catching the glow of the lantern swinging overhead. His hands were steady. They always were.

“You’re thinking too hard,” he said. His voice was low and measured. It was the kind of voice that could talk a man off a ledge or coax a confession from someone who didn’t want to give it.

Jessica smirked, rolling the whiskey over her tongue. “Maybe I’m just thinking the right amount.”

“Doubt it.” Sam leaned back, his chair creaking. “You get that look when you’re about to do something reckless. Or when you’re lying to yourself.”

Jessica tilted her head, considering. “And which is it this time?”

“Maybe both.”

She exhaled through her nose, watching the slow swirl of liquid in her glass. The heat pressed against her skin, thick and inescapable. Nights like this were supposed to be simple: whiskey, the hum of the ocean, and the weight of nothing at all. She wanted to believe in that kind of silence.

She had spent the last year building a life that looked normal from the outside. A detective agency, quiet cases, a world that didn’t ask too many questions.

And yet.

“The thing about existentialism,” she said finally, stretching out her legs, “is that it only works if you believe in absolute free will.”

Sam took a slow sip, watching her. “And you don’t?”

Jessica tapped a finger against the rim of her glass. “I believe in choices. But I also believe some choices are made long before we ever get to them. By history. By circumstance. By the weight of things we don’t even remember.”

“Sounds an awful lot like fate.”

She shook her head. “Fate is lazy. Fate is what people say when they don’t want to take responsibility for their own lives.”

Sam smiled, slow and knowing. “And yet, here you are. Running a detective agency in a country you didn’t grow up in. Sitting on my deck, drinking my whiskey. Can’t help but wonder how much of that was ever really a choice.”

Jessica looked at him then, the corner of her mouth twitching. “You think I was meant to end up here?”

“I think you ended up here,” Sam said. “And that’s enough.”

They let the silence settle between them, comfortable, the way old friends do. Jessica closed her eyes for a moment, listening to the ocean. The world was simple like this—a slow drink, a steady tide, a conversation that didn’t ask too much of her.

Then Sam reached for the remote, flipping on the small television mounted beside the door. The screen flickered to life, throwing pale blue light across the deck. The volume was low, but Jessica caught the words running across the ticker before the headline did.

BREAKING NEWS: BODY IDENTIFIED AS JASON CARTER—FORMER COLLEGE ATHLETE MISSING FOR OVER TEN YEARS.

Jessica’s breath stilled.

Sam turned up the volume. The reporter’s voice cut through the night air, crisp and clinical, reading out details that didn’t make sense.

Forensic testing has confirmed the identity of a body discovered earlier this week as Jason Carter, a former football star at Palmetto State University, who disappeared over a decade ago under mysterious circumstances…

Jessica stared at the screen, the words sinking like stones into deep water.

Jason Carter. Identified. Dead.

Sam shifted in his seat, his eyes flicking to her. “Jess.”

She didn’t look at him. She Couldn’t. The past she had been running from just knocked on her door. And this time, it wasn’t leaving.