Margaret Mary Murphy was running away from herself again. She didn’t realize she had embarked on a dangerous journey of discovery that would start and end in a quaint little village nestled on the coast of Maine. Margaret had just buried her father, the last of her family ties, and needed to escape her life and memories, although memories of her father’s comments drew her to Mundy. It was a small village with a long memory of its own. In small towns, everyone is tied to everyone else by blood, marriage, or friendship, and Mundy was no exception. It held more secrets than serenity for Margaret, and it was a place where the past shielded the shenanigans and illegalities of the present. It would prove to be a volatile and lethal sea of deception to which Margaret had escaped to. As I scramble up to the spot, I recognize the source of the color, a striped tube top. Holy shit! My legs let go first, then my bladder as I landed hard on the slimy green rocks, my hands shooting out for balance and making contact with the razor sharp barnacles. There, like a large rubber baby doll, lay Sheila, gently lolling back and forth with the outgoing tide. No longer with a glowering expression of hate, Sheila’s face held a startled glazed stare. Like history repeating itself, my past came crashing to mind. I hadn’t thought about the episode in Alaska for years. I had tried to forget the past, compartmentalize it, and, yes, run away from it. It was now obvious that none of that had worked. In an instant, the names and faces of the people who had driven me close to suicide and given me a double dose of distaste for law enforcement all came spinning into my mind. This was not the first time I had run across a dead body in a watery setting.