The trick was to keep the truth hidden, twelve year old Abby Jenkins thought, as she sat listening to the psychologist. All the counseling in the world couldn't change the truth. Abby had killed her father. Finally free of him, she didn't want to incriminate herself. Her teachers said she was smart. She would choose her words carefully, react in the appropriate manner and keep her secret safe.  

On the day of the murder, the Coast Guard and local police questioned her. She gave them the facts, but didn't mention how she had planned the murder and had worked to set the events in motion. At the crime scene, the beach, her bucket and shovel lay on the sand. Without the hidden third weapon, her brain, the other two were just toys to them. They never detected the setup, for which she was thankful, especially since she had help from Mother Nature. They never questioned her innocence. The authorities wrote off the murder as an accident.

"It wasn't your fault, Abby," the psychologist proclaimed. He would be a great defense witness if the truth were discovered.

"You tell me that, but it feels like it was my fault." Abby told the psychologist to simulate conflict. She tried to cry.

"People too often feel the need to assign fault where there is none. Accidents happen, and losing your father in that bizarre manner was shocking, but not your fault. Alcohol and the ocean don't mix. Accidental drowning happens frequently at the beach. You weren't responsible for his drinking."

"I know," Abby replied. Like a skilled actress, she thought about how her father had hurt her. The torment induced her to cry. The psychologist automatically reached for a tissue and gave it to her. The box, which looked like a permanent fixture perched on his desk, indicated her response was appropriate. Her tears were for herself. She considered her father responsible for his own death. It was a truth she relied upon, the basis for her actions.

"You'll get over it when you're ready, but there are stages of grief and each one takes time to go through. I'll be here to help you and so will your mother."

As she left his office to find her mother in the lobby, Abby doubted the counselor's words. He didn't know her mother very well and made assumptions, ones that she had already questioned in the past and had found false. Mom wouldn't be of much help. Had she ever been before? Mother Nature, an awesome, loving power, was her true mother, helping her when needed. The counselor didn't understand since he only knew what he was told, and she had authored the story.

The fervor just after her father's death finally had calmed down. There was so much to do after Dad died; summoning the police, talking to the authorities, waiting for the autopsy results, helping her mother with the funeral, and greeting the well wishers, who came with their condolences.

Her mother was unprepared to be a widow. Abby felt it her duty as the older daughter to help her mother and sister adjust since she had caused the changes in their lives, she hoped for the better. Abby's little sister Pam was just seven years old. Friends and relatives had commented on Abby's strength. "Twelve years old and practically grown up," they had said. She had sniffled periodically so she didn't appear too unaffected. They didn't know that her maturity was forced.  Her parents' behavior had left no alternative.

"Let's play a game, Abby."

Back in her room after the counseling session, Abby thought about her relationship to her father. They were unnaturally close in a way that Mother Nature hadn't intended. Her mother always said that Pam was her baby and that she was Daddy's little girl. Abby never wanted it that way, but she had no choice. Dad took an unsavory interest in her after Pam's birth. At first, she happily received his attention since the baby commanded all of her mother's time. The flip side was that her mother paid even less attention to Dad's actions.

"This is just our game, Abby."

Abby guessed that Mom didn't want to know. The more attention she received from her father, the more distant her mother became. They'd ended up as strangers, but now her mother was slowly opening up and welcoming her help. Perhaps there was hope for their relationship, but she questioned if Mom was trustworthy.

Every vacation had posed a problem. Dad was around all the time, rather than at work, but this year she felt protected. The beach cottage was small. Unlike their previous vacations, Abby shared a room with Pam, thrilling her. Dad always said that their relationship was private. With Pam as her constant companion, he couldn't play his games.

Unexpectedly, he launched his attention aggressively at Pam. Not that he forgot about her, but he said she was getting a little old for his games and Pammy would enjoy them now.  

"Play wiggle worm on Daddy's lap, Pammy."  

Abby was outraged when he started playing with Pam in the adjacent bed. She wasn't her mother, wouldn't be her mother, who pretended she didn't know. The nights were unbearable. Hearing the same words now directed at Pam was sickening. Her heart raced while lying a few feet away listening in the dark. Abby wanted to fight him and save her sister. Pam, who couldn't fathom what he was doing, cried after he left each night. Abby consoled her. Rocking Pam to sleep in her lap, Abby knew she had to find a way to stop him.  

The bright days on the beach contrasted so sharply with the darkness of the nights. Like thorough goodness, Abby felt the sun warm her inside and out. Filled with the sounds of natural life, she heard the crash of the ocean's waves and the shrieks of the seagulls. Aligned perpendicular to the surf, vividly colored beach towels spread against a backdrop of beige white sand where crabs and clams safely tucked into their cozy hidden homes. She felt safe there as well. Mother Nature had provided her creatures with a healthy environment helping them thrive, unlike her own home.

She noticed every detail as if in a state of heightened consciousness. The gravitational forces of the moon and sun governed the tides, one of Mother Nature's rules that she'd learned in science class. Every afternoon the high tide washed over the beach causing them to move their towels toward the dunes. The advancing tide filled the holes she had dug with water. It was difficult to pull her sunken bucket and shovel from the wet sand. The water eliminated air pockets, creating a vacuum, so her bucket and shovel stuck fast adhering beneath the sandy surface. Doubling the effect was the weight of the saturated sand making it hard like concrete. She guessed that water was very heavy.

The information sifted through her brain bouncing and reforming her ideas like the dry sand she sprinkled on top of her dribble castles as it stuck to the wet sand forming bigger dribbles.

"...stick in a thumb and pull out a plum..."

That night Pam cried out. Hearing her baby, their mother came to the door, ushered her father out of the room, turned her back on the girls and slammed the door. Their parents fought, shouting at one another behind the closed door while Pam cried on her lap.

The next day on the beach, Abby knew her parents still fought silently. Both drank beer, a rarity for her mother. Pam and she played closer to the surf in the sand, away from them. Her parents' behaved embarrassingly. They dug a hole, which grew as the day progressed. Later in the afternoon, her father had passed out on a beach towel. Her mother, staggering a bit, said she needed to go back to the house to lie down. Pam went with her. Abby had already formulated her plan and knew she'd never have another chance.

"Let's play a game, Dad."

The afternoon sun waned. Abby saw the surf on the rise. She estimated the height of her father, climbed into the deep hole and dug a bit more out of the bottom with her bucket and shovel.

"Daddy, wake up!"

"What? What do you want Abby?"

"I want to bury you in the sand."

"Abby, I don't want to be buried in the sand."

"But Dad, every girl wants to bury her father in the sand. Come on, be a sport and I'll get you another beer. You might like what I have in mind," Abby intimated flirtatiously.

"What are you playin' at girl?"

"Dad, just get in the hole. You don't have to do a thing."

"Yeah alright, but just for a minute, I'm tired."

Abby got a beer out of the cooler for her Dad and handed it to him after he stood wobbly in the hole. He drank the beer while she filled the hole with sand packing it around his body tightly, which he enjoyed. Despite her revulsion, she touched his body where he liked, the deepness of the hole providing privacy from onlookers. When the hole was one third full, she filled her bucket with sea water and poured it around his body.

"Gees, Abby, that's cold. Why are you pouring water in with the sand?"

"It's better that way. Let me get you another beer."

She filled the hole with more sand and water. While drinking another beer, her father became accustomed to the water temperature and didn't mind when she poured the water around him driving out any air pockets, which filled in with sand.

"Give me the beer, Dad."

"Why?"

"I have to finish and your arms will be under the sand. I'll give you a drink once you can't move your arms."

"Abby, haven't you done enough."

"No, I'm sure you'll only let me bury you once, so I want to do it right."

Amazingly, he complied with her wishes, but then she knew in his drunken state that he wasn't thinking clearly. In his perverse mind, she realized sourly, he probably thought she was jealous of Pam, vying for his affections.

She packed the heavily laden sand so it held him tightly. When she was finished, her father's body was totally encased, except for his head. She served him the rest of his beer and talked to him until he passed out again.

People walked by behind her father, who faced the ocean.

Abby said, "I'll just be a minute Dad. I want to get the camera from Mom and get your picture. Just wait here and don't get out of the sand yet."

The people smiled as they passed them. Abby smiled back and skipped up the beach, as if to find her mom and get the camera, but once out of sight she hid in the dunes.

Looking down the beach, she saw no one near and concluded that it must be dinnertime. Only her father's head remained visible. From a distance, it was hard to identify the round object. His head could have been a medium size ball. Turning away, she let Mother Nature finish the job, keeping her eyes on the horizon.

As the sun set, she steeled herself to look at the beach where she'd buried her father. Two foot waves washed over where his head had been. The sea was rough at high tide and the roar of the waves louder. Turning the opposite way, she took a moment to admire the beauty of the sunset's colors and thanked Mother Nature for her freedom and Pam's safety.

After making sure no one watched, she sprang up from the dunes and started her performance. She ran toward their beach house as if on fire, screaming, "Mom...."

"It's alright, baby. I'm here. You must have fallen asleep."

Abby woke at the sound of her mother's voice and knew she had relived the murder in her dreams.

"I wanted to talk to you about the grief counseling. Do whatever the counselor says. It was an accident. No one holds you responsible. You couldn't know the tide would come in. Besides, your dad was drunk, Abby. Let's put this behind us."

"I totally agree." Her mother didn't know the truth, but Abby felt her suspicions.

"Get your shower before too late."

"Sure," Abby said. She rolled over on the bed as her mother left her room. Her mother's complicity would be the basis of their new relationship. Maybe it was her mother's way of making it up to her.

Leaning against the headboard, she thought of her biggest fear the day of the murder. Mother Nature had taken care of that fear in the most unexpected way. Abby didn't know if the authorities could calculate when the tide came in against when she reported the accident, but they didn't find her father buried under the sand. The rough surf had sucked his body out to sea alleviating her worrisome timing problem. With the body gone, even if they suspected, they could never prove that she had waited until it was too late. The incoming tide not only took the body out to sea, but also filled in the hole, erasing all the evidence. His body had washed up the following day.

Next summer, instead of digging holes, Pam and she would build sand castles and fly kites, letting them soar into the unbounded, sunlit sky. She relaxed on her bed, a feeling she'd never felt in her own home. Hugging her pillow, she thought about the beach.

Hiding was a natural method of survival. Just as sand crabs hid from predators, she'd keep the truth hidden. The Internet would provide enough information on grief to fake her way through the counseling. Survival of the fittest was the natural rule. Mother Nature and she had made a great mother and daughter team, one that dear, old Dad never had anticipated. Harming a smart little girl had proven fatal, but no one would ever know.