A Deep and Dark December by Beth Yarnall

being his. He’d thought almost losing his father had been bad. This was ten times worse. Almost losing something was nothing like actually losing it.
    “What did your witness say in her statement?” Ham asked.
    Graham dropped heavily back into his chair. Old resentments rose up, threatening to choke him. He’d thought by leaving, things would change, his father would change. But nothing changed in a town that stayed the same year after year, decade after decade, generation after generation. By returning he’d been sucked back into the expectations and responsibilities he’d run from. He doubted he’d be able to escape a second time. Maybe this was his punishment for what had happened in L.A. with Patricia. Maybe this was his comeuppance. God knew he deserved this and more. He couldn’t have chosen a more ironic penance than this.
    “Pretty much what I already told you.” Graham couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his tone. “She’s not giving her formal statement until tomorrow. Do you mind if I go? It’s late.”
    “Sure, son.”
    Graham stood. “Well, good-night.” He started for the door, his tread heavy.
    “Graham?” He looked back at his father. “It’s good to have you home.”
    He nodded and left the study, wishing he could escape responsibility as easily. He’d counted on his father to be sheriff until Adam came home. Had hoped his move to Los Angeles would have been enough, but here he was, right back where he didn’t want to be.
    The sea wind hit him full force, a briny slap in the face. He jogged to his car and climbed in, needing to get the hell out of there. He was trapped. Trapped by tradition and familial expectations. Trapped in a town that ate at his soul. He hated the confines of small town life, the small minds and big mouths. He could almost feel it closing in on him, suffocating him. He didn’t belong here and he couldn’t quite see his way back to L.A. and the memories that waited for him there.
    He sped down the deserted streets, passing memories along the way. The corner where he’d crashed his first bike. The diner where he’d had his first date. The baseball field where he’d played Little League. He knew the name of the family that lived in almost every house he passed. He knew which businesses were new and which had been around for generations, transitioning from one family member to the next.
    He’d never thought of his family’s legacy as anything other than a burden, a duty to escape from, like mowing the lawn or hauling out the trash. His father spoke of it as though it was an honor. He wished he felt the same. He would always fail his father in that way. His father’s disappointment in him had become a near tangible thing he brushed and bumped up against almost constantly. He didn’t know how to be the son his father wanted him to be.
    He stopped his car and suddenly realized he’d come to the bluffs, the highest point in San Rey. The muffled roar of the sea dashing on the rocks below drew him out of the car. He’d often come here as a teenager to think or try to get in some girl’s pants. Forgoing the bench, he stood at the railing and looked out over the night-blackened ocean. There was something about the rhythmic ebb and flow of the tide that soothed him. It was constant, dependable. He pulled in a deep breath and tilted his face into the misty breeze, closing his eyes. If only he could be like the waves, coming and going as he pleased.
    After several steadying moments, he opened his eyes and glanced down at the rocks below. Maybe he was more like the rocks than the water. A static thing that life pounded and crashed against, trying to wear down. It was colder here with nothing to block the wind. Graham didn’t mind the cold. It matched his mood. He stayed at the railing, his body tense against the chill, until his eyeballs hurt and his hands went numb. He jammed them in his pockets and turned to go back to his car. The outline of a figure sitting on