I waited on the shore with my father, watching the wind push debris along the water’s edge. Dad stood with arms crossed, jaw clenched. He’d never been one for hugs or comforting words, and I wished, again, that things were different.
I told myself to be grateful – he’d dropped everything and rushed down from Auckland when I called.
Mum, of course, was too busy with work to come.
“But Samantha.” Dad’s voice was sharp against the howling wind. “The Met Service forecasted this storm. Why would you go out onto the lake?”
His words shattered my numbness. I’d heard the forecast, but shrugged it off, convincing myself it would be just another warning for a storm that never eventuated.
There was no answer I could give him. I walked away and sat beside the jetty. My fingers trembled as I lined up pebbles on the rocky shore. As if, by arranging these stones, I could impose order on the chaos. Or calm the storm itself.
A speck appeared on the horizon. My heart lurched.
Was this it? Were they bringing them back?
I stood, gripping the blanket tighter around my shoulders as the boat inched closer. The rescue crew moved quickly, pulling something from the deck. I leaned forward, straining for a glimpse.
Any second now, I’d see their faces … we’d laugh at how reckless we’d been.
The coastguard met my gaze. Exhaustion carved into his face. “We found them,” he said.
Hope surged …
“Just the kayaks,’ he added, his voice rough. “Drifting alone.”
Jo was the first to take the stand at the inquest. “Please state your name.”
“Joanne Lynsey Robertson.”
Even from where I sat, her nervousness was obvious –forehead shiny with sweat, hands fidgeting with the microphone.
“Sam really wanted us to come to her parents’ lake house,” Jo said. “She kept saying we’d have the whole place to ourselves. I think she just … needed company. She didn’t seem to have any close friends.”
Her words stung.
No friends? I thought I hid that better. But she wasn’t wrong. Growing up, I learned that trust was a liability. My parents – Mum, the economist, and Dad, the investment broker – saw risk in every transaction. Friendships? Too volatile. Too unpredictable. In their world, caution was everything.
Mum said there was one time they weren’t cautious. Nine months later, I was born.
Their world left little room for closeness. I drifted through school and uni, always polite, always distant.
I wasn’t like them. Not academic. Not sharp-edged.
When I told Mum I wanted to study to be a personal trainer, she looked at me like I’d suggested running off to join the circus. “But, dear,” she said. “Is that even a real job?”
Bex was next to take the stand.
“When we got to Sam’s, it was awkward. She had planned nothing.” Bex said, her voice quiet but steady. “After what felt like forever, she suggested we take the kayaks out. She mentioned there was a storm coming, but said we’d have time. We all jumped at the idea, mostly to get away from the tension in that house. Sam … she wanted everything to be perfect. I could see that, but when things started going wrong, I – I froze. I didn’t know how to help her … how to help any of us.”
Bex’s words took me back. When a few students from my course agreed to spend a weekend at my parents’ lake house, something hopeful stirred in me. Maybe, just maybe, I could make some real friends.
Before the weekend, I prepared obsessively: stocked the fridge with snacks, arranged flowers in every room, and rehearsed conversations in my head. I even called my mother for advice. “You’ll be fine,” she said, her voice distant – probably emailing as we spoke. “They’ll appreciate the effort.”
“It’s just … I don’t want it to be awkward,” I said.
“It won’t be. You’ll manage. Look, I must run, but I’ll check in later.”
She never called me back.
As the weekend approached, I realised this was something I had to handle on my own.
But as soon as everyone stepped inside, the excitement drained from my body. My mind, once brimming with ideas, stalled completely.
“Well, this is exactly what I pictured for a fun weekend,” Olivia said.
Laughter, low and uncomfortable, rippled through the group. Jo shot me a sympathetic look, but it didn’t loosen the knot tightening in my chest. “Maybe we should’ve just stayed in the halls,” Rosie said. “Brian invited us to his flat warming party.”
It was unbearable. They shifted on the couches, tapping on their phones, glancing out the windows like they were waiting for something better to arrive.
I scrambled for solutions. A walk along the shore? That wine in the kitchen? But my tongue felt thick, ideas dissolving before I could shape them into words.
My gaze drifted to the lake. It felt risky – best to wait. But we’d already been sitting for an hour, and the sky was still.
You can’t stay here doing nothing, my inner voice hissed. They’re all sports-mad – Scrabble will not cut it.
“Let’s take the kayaks out.”
The words escaped before I could stop them. They sounded confident. Assured.
But an anxious flutter danced in my stomach as my guests perked up – smiling now, nodding, getting to their feet.
I couldn’t take it back.
Back at the inquest, it was my turn. I stood – legs unsteady, heart hammering. The courtroom seemed to tighten around me, the air thinning. My eyes, gritty and sore from countless sleepless nights, burned as I blinked under the harsh overhead lights.
“Samantha Elizabeth Collins,” I said, when asked to state my name.
“Please talk us through the events. From taking the kayaks out.”
The room faded. I was back at the lake. Wind rising. Sky darkening. Birds wheeling up toward the hills. “There were two doubles and two singles in the shed,” I said, my voice barely steady. “I made sure there were life jackets for everyone.”
This seemed so important. But in the end, it changed nothing.
The memories took hold. I saw Harper and Olivia laughing, fearless and loud, grabbing a double kayak. Rosie – always charging ahead – had launched her single and was well away from shore before I had time to react. I shouted after them. “Wait! Don’t go.” I scrambled to drag out the remaining kayaks, hands fumbling with ropes and paddles. Jo and Bex hesitated at the water’s edge. Less confident. Slower to move. Their nerves fuelled my panic. By the time I launched my kayak, the others were specks against the widening water.
Clouds rolled in from the west. The wind swallowed my shouts.
The courtroom returned, but the weight of those moments stayed with me. “I told them to wait,” I whispered. “But they didn’t listen.”
I scanned the room, searching for a flicker of understanding in the eyes staring back. My hands trembled as I gripped the edge of the stand, knuckles white.
“We were about 200 metres out when the wind really picked up,” I said, my voice uneven. “I couldn’t believe how strong it was. The gusts pushed our kayaks farther from the shore. The others – Harper, Olivia, Rosie – were no longer visible.”
I took a sip of water.
“The lake turned violent. Waves rose into white caps, slamming against our kayaks, tossing us like flotsam. Then the rain hit. Sheets of it. Cold, blinding. The sky got darker.
“I shouted their names. Over and over. But they were out so far. Bex and Jo’s kayak kept drifting from mine. I was terrified I’d lose them, too, so I tied the mooring rope from my kayak to theirs. To keep us together.”
Another breath.
“We tried paddling towards the others, but it was hopeless. We weren’t going anywhere. The wind was too strong, the water too wild.”
I looked down. “We had no raincoats. Just light clothes. It was freezing. And if we’d tipped over … I knew I wouldn’t be able to right the kayaks. Not in that.” My voice dropped. “The lake is so cold. In that water … even with life jackets.”
As I stood there, trembling and fighting back tears, my gaze flicked to where my parents sat. Dad’s face was rigid. His arms crossed. But Mum … her fingers tapped on her phone. Even now, during this nightmare, work came first. I swallowed hard, willing her to look up, just once.
Please, Mum, help me … I can’t do this alone.
But her gaze never lifted.
“In the double kayak roped to mine, Bex and Jo were shivering. Jo’s lips had turned blue. I looked towards the shore. It was far, with the water growing more turbulent by the minute. The rain kept falling – cold and constant. I turned again, trying to see the others, but … they were gone.”
My gaze drifted to the public gallery. The families. The ache in their eyes felt like daggers.
“Please try to understand,” I said, my voice cracking. “There was an impossible decision to make.” I faced the coroner and summoned what strength I had left. “I turned us back. Toward the shore.”
The courtroom air was hushed. I felt the stares of the families. Heavy with sorrow. Sharp with blame.
“You left them to die out there!” The voice exploded from the gallery. Mr Taylor, Olivia’s father, was on his feet. His finger pointed straight at me, shaking with rage. “They trusted you.”
The words landed like a blow to my chest. The coroner’s gavel banged once. “Quiet,” she said.
“You were supposed to be their friend! Murderer!” Bailiffs rushed at him, but he didn’t resist. As they dragged him toward the door, his words echoed through the courtroom.
“Murderer …”
The coroner ruled the deaths of Harper Jones, Olivia Taylor, and Rosie King as accidental. During her summation, she advised me not to blame myself, and urged me not to let the tragedy define my life.
But I had stopped listening.
Since then, nights are terrible, and sleep evades me. I keep myself occupied during the day, walking along the shore, collecting pebbles. Then, I head out to the end of the jetty where I hurl each pebble as far as I can.
Today is no different. I stand on the jetty, a pebble clenched in my hand, ready to send it flying.
But before I can throw it, I hear footsteps behind me.
“Hey Samantha.” My mother’s voice is tentative.
We’ve hardly spoken since the inquest – but now, here she is.
Without a word, she selects a pebble from my pile and holds the small, smooth stone between her fingers. Then, with a flick of her wrist, she tosses it into the lake. For the first time, I don’t feel the weight of her disappointment pressing down on me. Maybe it’s because, for once, she’s not trying to fix anything – not trying to fix me. She’s just … here.
One by one, we throw the remaining pebbles into the lake. The ripples spread out, slow and sure, but eventually, even they disappear. The sun sinks lower, casting a soft, golden glow on the water. I glance up at the house and see my father standing in the doorway. He beckons – a wide, sweeping gesture that takes in the lake, the house, and even the distance between us.
I look at Mum, and this time, when her gaze meets mine, it’s like she’s really seeing me.
It isn’t perfect. But it’s a start.
Author: Leonie Pritchard
Based in beautiful Rotorua, Leonie Pritchard is a passionate reader of fiction, drawn to stories that delve into complex human emotions and relationships. After many years of working as a project manager in the health sector, she is now channelling her long-held love of storytelling into creative writing.
