Praise for Joe Hart

I Become Her

“Hart gleefully explores his characters’ dark sides while keeping questions about their capacities for violence wide open until the book’s explosive finale. With simmering suspense, slick sleight of hand, and a pitch-black view of modern relationships, this offers an acidic summertime thrill.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Hart slowly ramps up the tension in this masterfully plotted, tightly written thriller, keeping readers off balance with twist after twist on the way to a shocking conclusion.”

—Bruce DeSilva, Associated Press

“Put this at the top of your TBR pile.”

—Mary Ann Grossman, St. Paul Pioneer Press

“This is psychological suspense at its finest—a nerve-jangling thrill ride that is expertly paced, deeply unsettling, and impossible to put down.”

—The Real Book Spy

“A mesmerizing Patricia Highsmith–meets–Alfred Hitchcock mystery.”

—Carole Barrowman, Minnesota Star Tribune

Where They Lie

“The tragic crash of a small plane sets an Oregon social worker on the trail of even greater tragedies behind it . . . A well-paced exposé of dark family secrets.”

—Kirkus Reviews

“The plot takes many twists and turns and keeps readers guessing until the surprising end. For fans of Harlan Coben, Riley Sager, and Linwood Barclay.”

—Library Journal

Or Else

2023 Edgar Award Winner for Best Paperback Original

“Hart remains a suspense writer to watch.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Or Else is a thriller/suspense tour de force. Joe Hart has knocked it out of the park with a start-to-finish roller coaster ride of perfectly executed twists and expertly timed chills. Deep character development and rich narrative seals Or Else’s place as the not-to-be-missed domestic thriller/suspense of the year.”

—Steven Konkoly, author of the Ryan Decker series and Deep Sleep

“The perfect thriller for a rainy afternoon, Or Else draws you into a web of small-town secrets, lies, and intrigue and doesn’t let you go. Hart’s well-rendered setting and characters resonate like people and places you’ve known. Loved every minute of this absolute page-turner!”

—D. M. Pulley, bestselling author of The Dead Key

“Joe Hart has written compelling stories before, but it’s in Or Else that he shows off just how good he is. This book checks all the boxes for me: a (seemingly) quiet, small-town drama—filled with those little quirks and secrets nobody wants to talk about—that quickly blossoms into something big, sinister, and menacing. Hart doesn’t pull any punches on some serious issues, either: love, infidelity, family conflict . . . there’s plenty to think about right up to the explosive ending. This is the thriller you’ll be recommending for the foreseeable future.”

—Matthew Iden, author of the Marty Singer series and The Winter Over

Obscura

“Joe Hart is a tremendous talent, and with Obscura, he has taken his storytelling to the next level. This is a genius work of science fiction, brimming with thrills, scares, and most importantly, heart. I devoured this book, and you will too.”

—Blake Crouch, New York Times bestselling author of Dark Matter and the Wayward Pines series

“Outstanding . . . Fans of Blake Crouch’s Wayward Pines series, with its combination of mystery, horror, and science fiction, will find this right up their alley.”

—Publishers Weekly (starred review)

“This gripping book will be a must-read for fans of SF-based mysteries such as John Scalzi’s Lock In and Kristine Kathryn Rusch’s Retrieval Artist series, as well as aficionados of stories about science gone wrong, too far, or both.”

—Library Journal (starred review)

“The pacing is excellent from beginning to end.”

—Los Angeles Times

“Those seeking an off-planet sci-fi thriller with a haunting plotline will devour Joe Hart’s Obscura, which reads quick and is jam-packed with terrifying surprises.”

—The Real Book Spy

“For the reader who likes hard science fiction with some mystery and suspense thrown in, Obscura should hit the spot. It’s not merely sci-fi, but a thriller wrapped in the deadly solitude of space with a determined heroine who refuses to give up.”

—New York Journal of Books

Also by Joe Hart

The Dominion Trilogy

The Last Girl

The Final Trade

The First City

The Liam Dempsey Mysteries

The River Is Dark

The Night Is Deep

Nora McTavish

Where They Lie

Never Come Back

Now We Run

Novels

Lineage

Singularity

EverFall

The Waiting

Widow Town

Cruel World

Obscura

I’ll Bring You Back

We Sang in the Dark

Or Else

I Become Her

Wyndclyffe

Novellas

Leave the Living

A Hole We Crawl Into

Short Story Collections

Midnight Paths: A Collection of Dark Horror

Something Came Through: And Other Stories

Short Stories

“Outpost”

“And the Sea Called Her Name”

“The Exorcism of Sara May”

Comics

The Last Sacrifice

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Otherwise, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Text copyright © 2026 by Joe Hart

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

www.apub.com

Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

EU product safety contact:

Amazon Media EU S. à r.l.

38, avenue John F. Kennedy, L-1855 Luxembourg

amazonpublishing-gpsr@amazon.com

ISBN-13: 9781662536991 (paperback)

ISBN-13: 9781662537011 (digital)

Cover design by Faceout Studio, Spencer Fuller

Cover image: © wanderluster / Getty Images

Part 1

Still Life

1

Early-morning light streams in through the window facing the sea.

Gulls wheel against a parched-blue sky and the tide is in. Hattie can tell by how loudly the waves speak against the rocks.

It’s real. It happened. Don’t pretend. Not even for a second. Don’t try to keep it out. Let it in. A protective mantra she dons like body armor each day. Its worn creases still chafe, but they’re familiar now. And there are things to be grateful for. She’s no longer nauseous as soon as she opens her eyes. Her heart remains at its measured pace instead of becoming a thunderstorm in her chest. She can draw an even breath. She is calm. The hurricane remains, but she has found the eye.

Hattie Conlee rolls over, savoring the ghosthope before touching nothing but flat blankets and a pillow she continues to place there.

Cold. Empty.

“Good morning,” she whispers, and only the sea answers.

2

The hardwood floorboards in the hall betray her every few steps no matter how careful she is. This is after she’s done her morning ritual in the bathroom and given a cursory look at the mirror, assuring herself she’s still there.

Halfway down the hall she pauses outside the guest room and listens, eventually tuning in to the faint snoring. Each time, the sound resurrects something inside her she gave up for dead. Each time, she doesn’t expect it to live and breathe, but it does. She smiles to herself and continues on to the kitchen.

She sorts the makings for French toast. Ed taught her a long time ago the best French toast comes from actual French bread. Even if it was a little stale. Maybe because it was a little stale. Making use of something that someone else would’ve thrown away was his talent. One of the many things she admired and that drove her half mad about her husband.

As she works, she relishes the feeling of being awake and busy in the early morning while another sleeps. She’s not sure the gratification has a name. It’s the mother in you, Ed would have said if he were still alive.

When everything is set, she pauses to make coffee. He likes to watch her cook, and she won’t rob him of it. She heats water and starts the grinder, which is quiet, its sound nearly lost beneath a gust of wind. Outside, clouds are coalescing above the treetops, bellies distended with rain. She’s lost for a time in the sky’s swirling gray. A flutter of wings in one of the trees, but it’s only a crow. Maybe the owl will come today. Hopefully not.

The kettle whistles and she turns the burner off. The kettle’s handle is pleasantly warm as she pours the water over the grounds. Another gust of wind and rain flecks the window. Steam rises in deliciously bitter curls and she breathes them in. Small joys were everywhere if you looked for them. And she has learned she must look for them.

The sounds have roused her guest. The bedroom door opens and feet patter down the hall to the bathroom. Water runs. A minute later he’s padding into the kitchen, eyes crusted with sand, dark hair bed—

Bedfellow. They call him the Bedfellow. He killed them in their sleep. Don’t fight it. Let it in.

—tousled, and midway through a yawn stifled by the back of his small hand. He gives her a smile and hoists himself into one of the chairs at the table.

“Hungry?” she asks. A sleepy nod, followed by another yawn. “Good.”

She starts cooking.

3

The rain never really comes, and they don’t pay much attention anyway. The food is good, the company better. They eat until they’re both stuffed. He helps her clear the dishes without being asked and washes the syrup from his fingers and the corners of his mouth. She’s always admired how neat he is, but it also might be something to worry about.

When the dishes are done they return to the puzzle they started the night before after he walloped her at Monopoly. The image scattered in the pieces on the table in the den is a family of three barred owls peering out from a hollow tree. She spotted it on a shelf in an aisle she hadn’t meant to go down at the general store, and it seemed like a dark providence. It’s five hundred pieces, but the border is already done and he’s filled in a good portion of one corner.

Hattie watches him out of the corner of her eye. Takes in the familiarity of his features. Tries attributing them. She watches the way he examines a piece, turning it this way and that. He’s a quiet child. Noticeably so. A thinker, she would’ve said in another life when her job brought her into contact with all kinds of little ones like him. But no more. No more.

It’s the quiet he carries that is most concerning. That and his lack of friends, though given his intelligent nature he probably hasn’t found someone in his age group to really bond with. And quiet isn’t any more sinister than curiosity, which is her particular curse. In truth, curiosity has ruined almost as many lives as greed. Because it’s a form of greed. A selfishness to know. But this isn’t just selfishness. It’s more important than that. More crucial. Someday it could be truly—

life and death life and death life and death

—vital. A warning to heed now rather than later. And she won’t miss it.

Not again.

He finds another piece and snaps it into place, and she smiles, the owls becoming whole.

“They look like they know something,” he says, studying the birds.

“You think so?” He shrugs. “Maybe they know who.” Her silly joke earns a quirk of his mouth before he goes back to hunting pieces, but his observation rings a certain bell inside her. Hasn’t she thought the same thing when watching the great gray who tends to sit on the lowermost branch of the dead pine at the corner of the yard? Whose presence she can almost feel before confirming it’s there on its perch. Like an omen waiting to be pronounced.

Fault lines have formed in the clouds and late-October sky bleeds through. Up the shoreline, there’s movement and color, a bobbing of red, which becomes the stocking hat on a dark-haired woman beside a tall man, who are picking their way along the rocky cove toward the house.

“Your mom and dad are coming.” Julian looks up, and her heart clutches at how his face looks in that particular morning light. “Go grab your bag.” He trots to the guest room and Hattie goes to the door, opening it just as his parents are climbing the steps.

Wendy’s cherubic face is prettily colored by the chill air, a softer shade of red beneath her hat. She has always struck Hattie as childlike, especially when standing in contrast to her husband Kevin’s towering height. Unlike another girl who shares her name, this Wendy appears as if she took Peter Pan’s offer and decided to never grow up.

“How was he?” Wendy asks as they step inside.

“Perfect as always,” Hattie says. “How was the party?”

“Good. Too good,” Kevin says. His eyes are bloodshot and there’s a paleness to his sharp features. “Mistakes were made.”

“There were three-too-many bottles of wine opened,” Wendy says, looking with amused pity at her husband.

“I’ll speak quietly,” Hattie says. “Coffee?”

“We drank a gallon this morning before everyone hit the road,” Kevin says.

“What did you guys get up to?” Wendy asks brightly. Kevin is a good man—pleasant in a distracted way, as if his mind is always floating to some other task or topic, which it may very well be, given his position as an assistant district attorney. But Wendy is the engaged of the two, the present one, the doer and the asker—genuinely interested in most things whether they’re integral to her life or half a world removed.

“Oh, we watched that new movie about the kids who are spies, and then he bankrupted me at Monopoly. After that we worked on a puzzle.”

“And did he talk about”—Wendy shoots a look down the hall and lowers her voice—“school or anything?”

The bullying incident. A fourth-grade boy a year ahead of Julian who, for reasons known only to the gods of preadolescence, had been targeting him for some time, which culminated in a can of pop being poured down the back of Julian’s shirt in the middle of a crowded lunchroom the week before. Parents had been called, punishments had been doled out, much to Julian’s dismay.

“It’ll only make things worse” was all he gave Hattie when she pried a little over cups of hot cocoa the night before.

“Not much,” she says now, hearing the scuffle of feet and the zipping of an overnight bag in the guest room. “He’s okay, I think. We can talk later.”

Wendy nods but there’s concern in her tenderhearted eyes.

“Boys that age—they lash out because of what’s going on at home,” Kevin offers. “Sometimes the parents don’t even realize what’s happening.”

Yes. She knows this. Knows it better than nearly anyone.

Kevin’s about to go on, but then Julian comes down the hall, a pleasant half smile on his face as his parents embrace him and ask how his night was. If he had fun. If he slept well. Yes, yes, yes.

Hattie moves with the family toward the door, having to resist asking to keep him a little longer. Maybe for the day so they can get some projects done? But that wouldn’t do. She’s been immensely careful so far and knows the dangers of letting emotions cloud judgment. Love can be a fog shrouding ruin.

She walks them out, giving Julian a hug first (allowing herself to hold on an extra second), then embracing Wendy.

“Thank you,” Wendy says. “We always appreciate you watching him so much.”

“Of course. Anytime.”

“Jules, what do you say to Mary?” Kevin prompts, nudging Julian’s shoulder.

“Thank you!”

“You’re welcome, darling.”

“Thanks again,” Wendy says. They wave. Hattie waves back and watches them move out of the yard to the rocky coast in the direction of their house hidden by the thick maples and pines separating their properties. The clouds shift again, and a heavy ray of light streams down, brightening them until they look incandescent against their surroundings.

She swallows at the tightness in the back of her throat and tastes salt in the air. The sea is gentle today even at its highest point, washing over the big rocks and whispering aloud the secret she’s kept from the retreating family since moving in next door to them over five years ago.

Julian is her grandson. And none of them can ever know.

4

The property didn’t come with a garage, but it did have a ramshackle shed standing off to the right-hand side of the house beneath the branches of a towering white pine.

The first year she was there Hattie commissioned a local contractor to fix the shed up, righting its pronounced lean, reshingling the roof, and retrofitting it with a new set of swinging doors that were just wide enough to permit the entry of her 4Runner. She wanted to oversee more of the project, but each time she caught a whiff of fresh sawdust, it brought an image so clear and poignant of Ed in his shop to mind, she was overcome and had to step inside the house to cry.

She backs the vehicle out now and shuts the shed’s doors before heading to the road. By the time she’s a mile from home, the vents are pouring welcome heat onto her feet and hands. She fiddles with the radio. Some music would ease whatever ill feeling that’s been tailing her all morning, but she can’t find anything decent on the dial. Lots of talk without saying anything. The ending of a song she can’t quite recall the name of. She switches it off and concentrates on the road.

Lantern Cove, her cove, is exactly ten miles north of the nearest town of Havensport. Hattie turns south on the main road and accelerates, mostly bare trees scrolling by on either side. It’s a pretty drive and one she’s come to appreciate no matter the season. But today, with the sun lost behind a layer of clouds and the resulting light the kind reminding her of long institutional halls, drab and hopeless, she just wants to get to town and back home again as quickly as possible.

The border of Havensport reveals itself in a roadside diner, then three antique shops, bang bang bang, all right in a row so as to snag as many passing tourists as possible. There’s a long wooden fence draped with fishing net and adorned with brightly painted lobster buoys. Two women in sweats power walk along the side of the road.

A half mile down and Julian’s grade school appears to the right—a low, sand-colored building she’s dropped him off at dozens of times over the years—and there, inside it, is where he hugged her for the first time.

This was the fall of his kindergarten year. He’d gotten sick on a Tuesday morning—a sore throat that became a fever—and when the school called to send him home, Kevin was in court and Wendy had driven the hour and a half south to Portland to do some shopping.

Could you go pick him up? Wendy sounded out of breath on the phone, as if she’d been running. I’m sorry to ask, but otherwise he’ll be sitting in the nurse’s office until I can get there. Hattie felt an internal blooming, as if a long-dormant perennial was finally pushing free of the earth and feeling the sun. She tried not to answer too eagerly but didn’t think Wendy would’ve noticed anyway with how grateful she was. I’ll call and tell them you’ll be picking him up, but you’ll still have to show them ID. That wasn’t a problem. Mary Whittaker had plenty of ID. All the ID you could ask for, and all of it legit. Henrietta Conlee was another person from another (life) time and place.

As the school drifts out of view, Hattie recalls showing her driver’s license to the office personnel, and then Julian was trotting toward her from the nurse’s cubicle, face reddened with fever, arms out, and she scooped him up automatically. He was lighter than anything she’d held since carrying Tommy around on her hip more than twenty years ago. The heat coming off him was alarming but matched the glowing inside her when his small arms locked around her neck and his head fit against the hollow of her shoulder. Like he was made to be there.

Ahead, the wooden sign for Haven’s Market swings in what little wind there is, and she pulls in, parking in her usual spot three spaces down on the far left edge of the lot. Creatures of habit, all of us, she thinks, gathering her purse. And then, out of the white nowhere of her mind—the heart always comes home.

This freezes her solid, one hand gripping her purse strap, the other on the door handle. My God, how long has it been since she’s thought that particular phrase? She doesn’t know, doesn’t want to know. Years. The last time was—

“No.” Her voice in the close confines of the vehicle is enough to snap her out of whatever thought is rising from the underdark of memory to grasp her with cold fingers and pull her down.

Without giving it another chance to take hold, Hattie climbs out of the car and heads for the market, moving fast, as if she didn’t recall the words in the first place. As if they never existed at all.

5

The market is one of her favorite places in Havensport—an open, airy space with a comfortable layout of produce and deli ringing inner shelved aisles that are wide enough for two carts to pass easily between them. The store always smells of ground spices and fresh coffee, given the small café off the cash register area, where a dozen tables and booths are situated before big windows with nice views of the woods to the west. And it doesn’t hurt that whoever is in charge of the music tinkling from overhead has good taste—lots of Gregory Alan Isakov and Noah Kahan.

But even with all the normalcy of the market’s comforts, Hattie can’t shake this morning’s feeling. The feeling of the owl and its watching eyes.

Something’s coming.

The heart—

She angles her cart hard enough around a corner for the wheels to squeal in protest, realizing she’s passed an entire aisle, oblivious to it and anything she might need from the shelves. That’s okay, she’s got all the staples at home, the only things she’s low on are creamer and wine. Not that she really partakes in the latter very much these days, but the last bottle of merlot is gone and there are nights when a glass of red soothes the inner tempest. What works, works, and she’s not going to argue with that.

At the mouth of an aisle a mother and son stand, playfully arguing over which cereal to buy. The mom is somewhere in her forties, and the boy is in that gawky adolescent stage before the hormones kick in that will sweep him away to manhood. Hattie’s ambushed by the sight of them, their banter and natural comfort with one another.

She sees Tommy then, pushing a shopping cart ahead of her, giving her one of his grins over a shoulder, and like always she’s torn between aching nostalgia and the horror of what he became.

Hattie stands at a freezer case with the door open for a while, pretending to inspect gallons of ice cream. She lets the frosted air pour over her, cooling her eyes and mind until she can carry on.

Once she’s procured the creamer and wine, she heads to the last aisle and places four bottles of Mottles clotted cream into the cart along with two loaves of the bakery’s sourdough. She’s warned Sloan about this particular vice but it’s no use. Something kills us all and I’m happy to die from clotted cream and jam, he’s said on more than one occasion. At eighty-three, she supposes her closest friend and neighbor has earned the right to bow out any way he’d like.

At the checkout she’s annoyed to see all the lanes except Mindy Mason’s are filled with shoppers and the girl herself has spotted Hattie and is waving her in. Resignedly, she pushes her cart to the conveyor belt and begins unloading.

“Mary, Mary!” Mindy chants, scanning items without looking down. “Haven’t seen you in forever, where’ve you been?” Mindy isn’t a girl (even if she’ll never really grow out of a name like “Mindy”), she’s a woman of at least twenty-five, but to Hattie she seems barely old enough to vote. A lot of people seem that way nowadays. But that’s part of aging—everything getting progressively newer as you fade away.

“Just busy at home,” Hattie says as pleasantly as she can. Another reason she prefers the other cashiers, besides Mindy’s unassailable perkiness, is her curiosity. Nonstop questions like machine gun fire assault anyone in her vicinity. For Hattie this is the chink in the armor she’s carefully created over the years. Questions are not friends.

“Doing some home-improvement projects?” Mindy asks. The scanner beeps like a question mark.

“No, not really. Just—”

“Getting ready for winter? I mean, not that fall’s gone or anything. Don’t you love fall?”

“I do.”

Beep.

“Any plans for Thanksgiving? I can’t remember where you said your family is from originally.”

Beep.

“Out west,” Hattie answers automatically. She’s no longer fully listening to Mindy’s prattle. She’s staring at the dark-haired man directly behind Mindy sitting in one of the booths in the café. He’s not looking at her now, but he was. He glanced away as soon as she focused on him. His head is turned to the left, so all she sees is a profile, but it rings an internal bell.

Every inch of her skin tightens because any familiarity here in her new life is like hearing a tornado siren on a darksome Oklahoma day.

“Mary?” Beep. “Mary?”

Hattie shifts her attention back to Mindy, who’s staring at her with widely attentive blue eyes. “Sorry, what did you say?”

“I said, you’re all set.”

Hattie nods and shoots another look at the man in the coffee shop, who now seems to be reading something on the table before him.

Mindy follows her gaze. “You okay, Mary?”

“Yep, fine. Just a little tired.” Hattie swipes her credit card, needing to be outside and gone, putting miles between the man drinking his coffee and purposefully, she feels, not looking at her.

“You know, my mom is an insomniac. She says she hasn’t had a good night’s sleep since 1996. Have you tried Valerian?” A confused look crosses Mindy’s face. “Or maybe it’s Valium.”

“Thanks, Mindy, take care.” Hattie steers her cart away without waiting for a response. A last glance over her shoulder and the man is looking at her again. Their eyes lock, and his snap away just as quickly. Her stomach does a mini plunge, and then she’s through the door and outside.

It’s nothing. Just someone who looks familiar but isn’t. She loads the groceries into the back of the 4Runner and continues to reassure herself. It’s been a long time since her paranoia reflex has kicked in. For a while it was like any other automatic reaction—a knee jerking with the tap of a hammer in the right spot, or gagging at the smell of rotted meat—always there, ready to deploy the moment anyone mentioned something tangential to her past, or she saw an image that registered from before. But she’s worked hard to tamp it down and move on. Worked hard to keep the present locked in place and the past where it should be, only acknowledging it when it rears its ugly head, because you can’t do anything else with what’s long finished.

But is it finished?

Ed says this as she’s returning her cart to the corral, a last furtive glance at the windows to see if she can glimpse the man behind them again. But the day’s overcast reflection is all she sees in the glass, her own smeared form moving back to her vehicle.

“What the hell does that mean?” she whispers, sitting for a second in the stillness of the Toyota. What else could it mean?

That what’s done isn’t always done, as she’s come to know.

Hattie sits staring at the tree trunks beyond the lot until they blend into a mass of brown gray, and prods the thought of the man sitting in the coffee bar. Dissects it to see what’s inside. What was it about him that was familiar? His hair? The set of his eyes? The prominence of his chin?

No. No. No.

None of that. Something else.

She approaches it from a number of angles, and it’s just as she’s about to give up that it comes to her.

He was sitting in the exact same spot the last time she was here.

Can that be right? She mentally pulls up the prior trip to the market and studies the vague recollection. If she’s remembering correctly, he was the only person in the café that day, and that’s mostly why he stood out. Probably why she noticed him today.

“Creatures of habit,” she says, and shivers at the dead emptiness of her voice. She checks the mirrors and glances around the lot, feeling foolish. Probably the entire thing is foolish. In all likelihood he’s someone new to the area and just enjoys the atmosphere of the market and that particular booth.

Hattie holds on to this as she speeds away, the market fading and soon gone in the mirrors.

6

When the gravel of her drive crackles beneath the tires, she finally releases all of her breath.

The whole way home, she’s been taking sips of air, not ever fully exhaling before drawing in some more, like a drunk trying to get the last pint down before closing time. But now, with the cottage coming into view, the idea that she was really and truly nervous about some random man is losing its definition, losing its punch. Not to her surprise, it’s morphing and taking on a strangely funny bent. As she’s bringing the bags up the steps to set inside the entryway, she starts to chuckle. A little at first, and then more, until she’s laughing hard enough for the muscles of her stomach to ache. Laughter seems to be life’s countermeasure. It comes when you least expect it, and sometimes when you need it most.

Once the bags are inside, she puts the 4Runner away and closes up the shed. The day is still overcast, and now there’s a subtle shift to the air, a hint of things to come. She makes a mental note to bring in more wood for the stove.

Before doing anything other than transferring the groceries to the kitchen, she makes a sweep of the house. It’s habit by now, but one that’s lost most of its urgency. It’s been eight years since the escape, and no real sign of Tommy.

That’s not fully true. There was poor Paige McMahon and that sighting a little over a year ago. And don’t forget the calls. You’re lying to yourself if you’re not counting the feeling that’s been building lately. That itching sense that you’re—

“Stop,” she says, opening the closet door in the hall.

—not alone.

Hattie shakes her head and continues the rounds through the little house. She deeply appreciates its footprint since there’s really only so many places to hide—beneath beds, in closets, behind the shower curtain—and she checks all of them. Nothing. Of course nothing.

As much as she hates the routine, it satisfies the gnawing unease, and she goes back to the kitchen to put away the food. She’s always felt the kitchen is the heart of the—

the heart always comes

—home, and this one is a good one. Comfortable and modern—high ceilings graced by several long skylights, giving the place an openness that’s like a deep breath.

As she’s stowing the bottle of red on the pantry shelf, she considers opening it instead. Her nerves could use a little Malbec massage, but on a day like today one glass would turn into three and she’d be of no use to anyone, including herself. And she still has one more task to complete. She promises herself some wine with dinner as a reward. She’s also learned it’s the little things that keep you going.

With an efficiency born out of deep repetition, Hattie transfers all the Mottles clotted cream into empty bottles whose labels read “Worthington’s Best.” She’s been hand-washing the Worthington’s bottles as carefully as she can, trying to keep the paper labels dry while scouring the inside of the glass, but time and moisture are taking their toll. She’s not sure what she’ll do when the labels begin to peel or the color fades enough even for Sloan’s diminishing eyesight to pick up.

When she’s finished, she starts for the den but hesitates, going down the hallway to her bedroom at the end instead. She goes to the bedside table and pulls out its only drawer. Inside are two items: the hardcase lockbox with the little combination dial (even though it’s been years since she’s opened it, she still remembers the combo—3434), and an aging iPhone. She pulls the phone out, turning it over once in her hand. Her friend who had done IT for the school had set it up for her. Made it basically untraceable. As long as you use a VPN and only do Wi-Fi calling, it can’t even be triangulated by cell towers, he’d said. She holds it for a beat before waking it with a familiar mix of trepidation and hope.

No missed calls.

The phone is the last remaining bridge to her prior life—she has burned all the others. She should burn this one, too, but can’t bring herself to do so. It’s been months since it rang, but it will ring again, and when it does she’ll answer. She’s powerless not to.

Hattie replaces the phone and goes to the den, which faces the bay. The low ceilings are lined with dark wooden beams, and the east wall is mostly windows, giving astonishing panoramic views of the cove. It’s here she stops to touch the puzzle (shooting a quick glance at the empty owl’s perch) before going to the small Jøtul woodstove in the corner. She tosses a couple more pieces of wood inside. It’s cozily warm in the long room, and the heat feels good as she looks out at the water, which continues to rush coldly onto the rocks even as the tide recedes. She settles into her favorite chair—an overstuffed leather monstrosity.

How many lives do people live? If they’re lucky, just one. If not, then many more. Usually, it isn’t something joyful that causes a severance where one life stops and another begins. Not as many people win the lottery after they’ve been unfairly fired, or find their soulmate after being trapped in a loveless marriage for twenty years. No, usually it’s tragedy that defines the beginnings and ends of lives. Tragedy cutting cleanly through one to create another to go on to. If you could go on, that is.

How many lives do people live? She’s not sure, but she’s on her second. Still life. That’s what amazes her the most. Even after what Tommy did, after Ed, after holding that hard lockbox with the fatal salvation inside too many times to count, there is still life waiting on the other side of it all.

And we carry on.

“Yes, we do,” she says to the empty room. “Yes, we do.”

She closes her eyes and focuses on the heat of the fire. The warm floor beneath her sock feet. The heavy weight of her body. She is safe. She is calm. There is worry and pain, but they are apart from her right now. She pictures Julian and how he looked drinking his hot cocoa the night before. His satisfied smile. The smell of his hair and how he felt when she hugged him this morning, how he hugged her back.

He is why she is here at all.

She breathes deeply and opens her eyes.

The owl is back.

It sits on the lowermost branch of the tree—always the same tree, always the same branch since it’s also a creature of habit. Except there is something very wrong about it now.

Hattie rises slowly from her seat and moves to the window, a tremor rising from her core and spreading outward. She blinks, sure she’s not seeing right, but nothing changes. If anything, the details become clearer.

It’s not an owl perched in the tree. It’s her son. It’s Tommy.

His feet are wrapped clawlike around the branch, knees bent tightly, nearly touching his chin. His arms hang bonelessly at his sides, swaying in the wind as if he is an extension of the tree itself.

He raises his head and looks straight at her. His mouth moves silently all the way across the yard, but his words whisper directly into her ear.

“I’m sorry, Mommaaaaaaaa.”

Hattie jolts, nearly spilling herself out of the chair, where she’s fallen asleep.

Asleep, she was asleep, it was a dream. Only a dream. But still, she’s terrified to look out the window at the tree, afraid that he’ll be there—a monstrous version of her son. Or maybe the truest one.

The branch is empty.

Hattie sags, bracing her face with a hand. It’s been months since she’s had a nightmare, and years since one so vivid. Her mouth and throat are dry from fear and the stove’s heat. A churning in her stomach at the thought that the dreams might be starting again. After so long.

“It’s the stress,” she croaks to the den. “It’s the goddamn owl.” That rings partly true. She’s been thinking and worrying more than usual, and the past has felt somehow closer. But there is something driving that, too, of course. No result without cause. She’s pretty sure da Vinci said that. Right now her thirst is being caused by too much coffee and not enough water, so she heads for the kitchen to get herself a drink but stops short as a sound raps through the stillness of the house.

It came from the entryway. Part of her hopes it was only the house settling in the wind, but that’s dashed away as it’s repeated.

Tap-tap.

Someone’s at the front door.

Hattie considers waiting them out, sure it won’t be anyone she wants to see, since the Crawfords were just here this morning and Sloan doesn’t travel this far on foot anymore. There aren’t any lights on in the house and her vehicle’s in the shed, so there isn’t really any way to tell she’s h—

Bam. Bam.

Punctuated. Undeniable. She tries swallowing, but her throat has become even drier, if that’s possible. Hattie eases to the entryway, all the while feeling like she should be doing anything but answering the door. It’s probably religious door knockers or maybe the county assessor—unwanted but nothing to worry about. No reason in the world to hide from whoever is out there.

She opens the door, readying herself for a polite brush-off, but the words shrivel and die in her throat.

A man stands on the porch with his back to her. At the sound of the door opening, he begins to turn. But before he can fully face her, she knows who he is.

The man from the café.

He is taller up close, and younger—maybe in his mid-thirties. Thick, wavy hair and an angular chin. Dark, calculating eyes. He takes her in, and it feels like she’s standing in one of those machines at the airport that scans you for weapons.

She’s recovering from the shock of seeing him there, trying to hide it and gather something to say, but he speaks first.

“Hello, Hattie.”

7

She was named after her maternal grandmother.

Henrietta Burke—a hard-bitten old crow who had come over alone on a boat from Ireland in the first years of the twentieth century. She knew her grandmother only briefly and remembered mostly the crooked things barely resembling fingers on each of her hands, but in that short time the impression was deep. Don’t let anyone get away with stepping on your toes, the old woman told her. If you do, they’ll walk over the rest of you.

Hattie took this to heart and lived accordingly. It’s probably what made her a good middle school teacher—kids could sense uncertainty, especially in their instructors, and she always exuded a calm control that served her well.

She reaches down and summons it now.

“No, I’m sorry—you must have the wrong place,” she says, so steadily it even surprises her. For a second it seems to work. A flicker of doubt enters his eyes but is gone just as quickly.

“I don’t want this to be harder than it is,” he says in a lower tone, as if he’s afraid of being overheard. “I know who you are. I know Mary Whittaker is an assumed name. I know who your son is and why you’re hiding here.”

She realizes she’s continuing the charade by politely shaking her head. But it’s not only him she’s trying to fool. It’s herself as well because this can’t be happening. It can’t be. “I’m sorry,” she says again, beginning to shut the door. He reaches for something in his back pocket, and she’s suddenly sure it’s a gun and that he’ll kill her in her doorway for some unfathomable reason she’ll never know. But all he holds is a plain white envelope with a single word written across it in sloping script: Crawford.

“I know who lives next door too. So if you don’t want me to drop this off to them,” he says, tapping the envelope against his opposite palm, “we should talk.”

8

“No.”

The word is a revolt—a denial that this is real at all. She’s still asleep in the chair, dreaming within a dream. The thing with Tommy on the owl’s branch was just a warm-up, and now she’s getting to the real show, the thing she fears almost as much as the phone in the bedside table ringing late at night. She even makes a half-hearted movement to pinch the inside of her forearm but stops. A gust of wind coasts across the yard in a bright tumble of fallen leaves, and she smells the autumn air. No dream could be this real.

The man shifts in place, still holding the envelope with at least one page folded up inside it. She can see the outline of the paper but can only look at it so long, because it’s just more proof this is happening. “Can we go inside?” he asks.

She responds by stepping fully onto the porch and pulling the door closed behind her.

“Okay,” he says. “All right.”

“Who are you? What do you want?” Hattie asks. She’s cold all over and hears it in her voice.

“My name is Ross. Ross Eeling. I need to ask you some questions about your son.”

Hattie scans the trees as if she will see Tommy’s face among them. As if this is all a joke, as if everything leading up to this has been one long, horrible joke and this is finally the punch line. “Why?”

“I’m writing a book about him, and I’d like to interview you.” He clears his throat. “I need to.”

The shock of the sudden shift in her reality is fading. Enough so that anger fills the space where it was, and she’s glad there’s nothing in her hands to strike him with, because otherwise she’s afraid she would. “What you need to do is get in your car and never come back here.”

He’s nodding as if he expected this. “I know you’ve never given an interview, and I’m sorry to . . . demand one like this, but I’m serious. If you don’t talk to me, I’ll tell them.” His head tips toward the Crawfords’, and she sees a thinly stitched quilt coming apart at the seams. How had she ever believed it would hold together? It’s an actual miracle it’s lasted this long.

Eeling seems to have said all he’s going to, because he starts to back down the stairs. Or maybe it’s the look on her face, like the rawest inner part of her has surfaced and he doesn’t like what he sees.

“I’ll be back in the morning,” he says, still retreating as if he’s afraid of turning his back on her. “You can tell me what your decision is then.”

She wants to hurl every expletive she knows at him. Threaten him. Even . . . yes, even hurt him if she could. Instead, she stands stock-still on the porch, watching him climb behind the wheel of his gray compact car and start it up. He doesn’t look at her again as he pulls away. The car’s taillights flash once at the drive’s first corner, then he’s gone.

9

Her favorite sweater hangs on the back of a kitchen chair, and she wraps it tightly around her as she begins to shake.

She’s cold, but it’s not just her core temp that’s taken a hit. It’s everything. The entire cottage feels frigid and distant, like it belongs to someone else, and of course it does. She’s been pretending, and pretending well, but what she’s considered a wall built of stone and mortar around her is really only a veil so thin it can be seen through.

And now it has been.

“How?” she says, and it sounds like an accusation. There is no way that man found her here on his own. She was too meticulous. But the more concerning revelation is the one that rolls in as an afterthought. If he was able to find me, then Tommy could too.

She’s going to be sick.

Hattie lurches to the sink, sure everything’s going to come up, but she only hovers on the edge of nausea before inching back from it.

She needs air.

Outside, she goes down the stairs and across the yard to where it becomes rocky and cedes to the steep shoreline. There’s an arrangement of big stones in descending size she uses as steps to the scant beach, but she opts for the biggest rock off to the right, with its semi-flat top as if, at some point in eons past, a great force sheared a place just for her to sit. She hugs her knees to her chest and rewraps the sweater around her, tucking her nose down deep in the collar to smell its comforting scent.

Ed bought the sweater for her, probably for Mother’s Day one year, and it became her go-to garment. The one that barely ever gets washed because it’s used so much. It’s become worn and a bit frayed, but it’s tough wool that will last. Which has outlasted the man who gave it to her.

Her longing for him then is a solid moving thing inside her, shunting aside all other need. Her partner is gone, and she’s alone facing the burdens of this world. The nightmarish hugeness of this new challenge falls on her. It feels big enough to blot out the sky. But she has to answer somehow. Answer like she has all the times before.

Hattie inhales, taking deep gulps of sea air that’s shifted and is coming down from the northwest. It tastes like rain. And change. Yes.

Like change.

10

When Wendy answers the door, she’s holding a laundry basket and pressing her phone to an ear with one shoulder.

Hey, she mouths, and steps aside to admit Hattie while saying into the phone, “Mm-hmm. Sure. Well, did you—yeah, right. Right.” She rolls her eyes comically and motions toward the kitchen.

The Crawfords’ house is larger than hers and more modern, with less cabin-ness to it. The kitchen and dining room sit below a loft where many of Julian’s toys are kept. The entire space looks out to the bay with almost as good of views as Hattie’s place. The air smells of apples.

Hattie continues to stand, then settles into a seat, knowing if she doesn’t sit, Wendy will know something’s wrong off the bat, and she doesn’t want this conversation hurried. It’s going to be one of the hardest she’s ever had, and she wants to do it the right way—if something like this can be done a right way.

The washer door bangs shut in the laundry room, and then Wendy’s voice grows louder. “Okay. Well, I gotta go, someone’s at the door. All right, love you too.” Then she’s bustling across the kitchen to the stove and setting her phone down. “Sorry—my sister. She just got a promotion, and now she’s half angry about it for some reason and had to vent. Do you want coffee?”

“No, thanks.”

“Tea?”

“Sure.”

Wendy starts the kettle and sits across from her at the table. She puffs out a long sigh, and some of her dark hair moves with it. Hattie’s struck again by how much she would like to have a daughter, someone exactly like Wendy. She really is a lovely person. And within the next minutes Hattie will hurt her worse than she’s ever been hurt in her life.

“I’m glad you came over—Kevin took Jules into town to do some shopping, and they might hit a movie after,” Wendy says.

Good. She doesn’t want either of them here for this. Especially not Julian. It will be hard enough to watch one heart break, let alone three.

“Wendy . . .” she begins but doesn’t have any clue where to go from there. She climbed from the big rock with enough sorrowful determination for what she must do, but now she doesn’t know how.

Wendy is looking at her expectantly, but then the kettle whistles and she’s up and making their tea—a minor stay of execution—before setting Hattie’s mug before her. “So—” Hattie begins again, but Wendy talks at the same moment.

“He was better than he has been in weeks after he came home, lots of smiles and some laughs. It was such a relief.”

Hattie nods, thinking of how somber Julian was upon being dropped off the afternoon before. The deep look in his eyes. Eyes he had acquired from his father, who had always been a quiet boy, too, and now she wonders if this is how it starts—with a quiet innerness that grows down, boring deeper and deeper until it hits a depth most people don’t know is possible. A depth where dark wills live and thrive. Where the most savage urges are born red-eyed and eager to be released on the world.

Hattie comes back from wherever she was as Wendy goes on. “—were actually considering getting him into therapy. God, wouldn’t Kevin’s parents just love to hear that.”

“You should,” Hattie says. Wendy blinks in surprise. “It would be good to have him see someone.”

“You really think so?”

“I do.”

“I know bullying can be traumatic, but I thought with the other kid being suspended for a week, things would turn around.” Wendy frowns. “You’re probably right, though; even if it stops now, he should talk to someone.” She plays with the little paper tea tag on the end of its string. “I’m glad he opens up to you.”

“He didn’t say much, only that he thought the repercussions were going to make it worse.” And he’s probably right. If she learned one thing teaching middle school for nearly twenty years, bullies liked to have the last word. Or punch. They found it unbearable not to.

“I’ll talk to Kevin. He knows some therapists from court—one of them has to work with kids.” Wendy shakes her head. “I wasn’t joking about Kevin’s parents, though—they’ll have a heyday with this when they find out. The only time they’re really interested in Jules is when there’s something to criticize. I told you they were against us adopting, right? They thought we should try more in vitro. But I couldn’t do any more after the first two didn’t . . .” She swallows and looks away. “Anyway. They don’t see him as their ‘blood,’ as they put it. Of course, neither am I and they treat me the same way. At least they’re consistent . . .”

Wendy pauses to sip her tea, and Hattie wants to say Kevin’s parents can kick rocks since Julian already has someone in his life who’s left everything behind to simply be near him and would do it again in a heartbeat.

But you’re not here to keep building; you’re the one-woman wrecking crew. And you better get to it. His safety and the woman’s across from you might depend on it.

Maybe. And maybe she’d be lighting a fuse that would blow up their lives for nothing. She considers what Ross Eeling wants, letting herself brush up against the possibility of giving it to him. What would it change? Especially if she can figure out how he found her. If she’s still safe (if they’re all still safe), why ruin everything by telling them who she is? Who Julian’s biological father is. What he is.

The answer is as cold and sterile as a scalpel: She doesn’t know if she can take that chance. Because she doesn’t know if she’s holding back for their sake or her own.

Hattie stares down into her cup she’s yet to take a sip from. The tea has darkened enough for her to see an outline of herself in it, and she encounters the sickening sense she no longer knows who she is or who she’s become.

She licks her lips, feeling it all on the back of her tongue like something she’s going to purge. And that’s how it has to be done—all at once or not at all. But then Wendy says, “I feel terrible about it, but I’ve never liked Kevin’s folks. I dread when they come to visit. They’re just so . . . cold to Jules. Kevin and I have gone round and round about it. He hates that they haven’t bonded with him, too, but they’re his parents. What can you do?”

“Yes, what can you do?” Hattie echoes. Wendy reaches out and gently grasps her hand.

“You’ve been a better grandparent to him than they’ll ever be. I’m so glad you found us.”

She squeezes Wendy’s hand back and says the only thing she can.

“Me too.”

11

She seems to drift, rather than walk, back home on the wind coming out of the north.

It’s like being enshrouded in fog after being so sure of what she was going to the Crawfords’ to do. So committed. She’d pictured herself coming back to the cottage in a mess of tears and shame. But all of it is still inside her, dangling on a thread like her own personal sword of Damocles.

Because if she lost another family, there would only be the hard lockbox left and the terrible promise inside it. A heart can only withstand so much before it breaks for good.

And there’s also the interminable damage she would set in motion with her confession. This is partially why she swallowed it down (just for now, she’d told herself) along with a polite amount of tea before leaving, and it’s also very much a cop-out. But as she reaches her yard, she lists off some of the reasons like a tarot reader flopping cards before a clueless mark.

If she revealed who she was it would end her relationship with the Crawfords—yes, that was a given. But it would also force Julian as well as his adoptive parents to face his heritage. Knowing what he came from and what his life might look like going forward. It was exactly the reason Ed had forbidden her from adopting him in the first place.

He’ll never have a normal life with us, Ed had said, eyes reddened with grief. You have to let him go.

And she had. Against every fiber of her being crying out not to, she had. The same as she had done with Tommy on some level through the years. At least the person she’d known as her son.

Enough. Can’t think of that right now.

But coming slowly up the treads of the cottage, feeling every year of her age, she is at the same precipice again. Let go or risk total ruin.

As Hattie steps inside the house she thinks of Ross Eeling standing there on the porch with his envelope full of blackmail, and a hatred forms for him purer than almost any she’s felt before. She releases a few deeply colorful expletives and putters around the kitchen without really doing anything. Maybe he’ll have a change of heart and never come back. Or maybe he’ll drive off the road into a tree or slip in the shower.

Or I could always kill him. She almost laughs at that, but there’s too much frightening satisfaction accompanying the idea. And the thought that follows it sobers her completely. Like son, like mother . . .

Christ, she needs a drink.

She opens the wine and pours herself a glass, taking it into the den. Darkness has fallen and the lights shining from Sloan’s house across the cove are bright and beckoning. But she can’t get herself to deliver his groceries tonight, much less face the man himself. He would see something in her eyes and in her current state she might end up telling him everything. And she’s not ready to do that. Not yet.

Instead, she finishes her wine and readies for bed, checking the phone again in the nightstand drawer. Then she tries to sleep.

But mostly she listens to the wind and lies staring into the dark, waiting for morning.

Part 2

Cold Front

12

It’s raining when Ross Eeling’s car finally appears from around the bend in the drive.

It started sometime in the night—the wind rising to a howl, then the faint patter of rain on her bedroom window, on the roof, against the skylights in the kitchen. It was soothing enough, and her exhaustion was such that sleep finally dragged her under. But she woke with a start just before dawn, a terrible nameless anticipation hovering over her before recalling the prior day and what awaited. She rose and showered in freezing water until she began to shiver, then went to the kitchen and made coffee.

Now Hattie watches Eeling from the front window as he climbs from his car and snags a black bag with a shoulder strap from the back seat and rushes toward the house through the rain.

Came ready to work. Pretty confident about what my answer is going to be, she thinks, making her way to the front door. This only enrages her more as she steps onto the porch and stands, arms crossed, barring his way.

They study one another. The moment is still even with all the falling rain. Some of it drips off Eeling’s eyelashes as he blinks, looking up at her.

“I’ll give you what you want,” she finally says. But before he can respond she follows up with: “On two conditions.”

“Okay.”

“One: You tell me how you found me.” Eeling nods, more water running from his soaking hair. “Two: You tell me what’s in this book you’re writing. Agreed?”

He hesitates. “Agreed.”

“And once you have what you want, you’ll leave and never come back. If you don’t—if you end up wanting more and more—I’ll do another interview; first with the police, then with The New York Times—I recall they had a standing offer for one. And I won’t just give my story to someone else, I’ll tell them all about you and how you blackmailed me. You’ll never make another cent from writing again. Am I being clear?”

“Very.”

She still almost turns him away then, because a line will be fully crossed once he’s inside. A line she’s drawn between her two lives, a border scored into the landscape of her heart. And once she steps back over it, everything will come rushing through.

Eeling is still standing at the bottom of the stairs looking up at her. Waiting. Finally, Hattie stands aside and he moves past her through the door. She gives the yard a last scan through the drizzling rain and follows him.

13

They sit at the kitchen table beneath the water-smeared skylights.

Eeling opens his bag, draws out a laptop, and begins setting up a workstation with a few pens and a half-soggy pad of paper with a meticulousness Hattie finds strangely fascinating. He taps his phone and the screen brightens to a background picture of a woman holding a boy of perhaps three who’s smiling up at her. Hattie glances away as if she’s seen something indecent. She doesn’t want this man who’s invaded her life humanized in any way. She wants him gone. Rainwater drips steadily from Eeling’s chair onto the floor, and he makes a show of trying to dry everything along with himself. But he’s absolutely mistaken if he thinks she’s going to offer him a towel. Let him soak.

She pours a single cup of coffee and settles into a seat across the table. “Who are you?”

“I told you, my name is—”

“Ross Miles Eeling. Yes, I looked you up this morning while I was waiting. You worked for The Washington Post and then moved on to independent reporting. I think a podcast that’s no longer running was your last effort in journalism, is that right?”

If her words have any effect on him, he doesn’t show it. Only dips his head once. “What you see is what you get.”

“I doubt that very much.” She surveys him again. “Let me see some ID.”

With a bemused smile he unfolds his saturated wallet and shows her a New York State driver’s license. “Lost a little weight since that was taken,” he says before tucking it away. “But I’m me.”

You’re you, all right, but who the hell are you really? Hattie sits back in her chair and takes a drink of coffee she no longer wants. She’s running high on caffeine and something else that’s not quite adrenaline but close. Anger. You’re still mad as hell, Ed intones. He could always tell when she was on a warpath and knew well enough to stay out of her way. Usually, he would retreat to his woodshop until she’d calmed down and was ready to talk. And he’s right, the anger’s like a kicked hornet’s nest in the center of her chest. But releasing it on the man sitting across from her will only accomplish one thing—putting a confused and heartbroken look on the little boy’s face next door. And she’s not willing to do that. Not unless she has no other choice.

Eeling slides a semi-damp paper across to her with several dense paragraphs. “It’s an interview agreement. Boilerplate stuff,” he says. She skims the text but doesn’t move to sign it.

“How did you find me?” she asks.

He has stripped off the sweatshirt he was wearing and hangs it from the back of the chair to dry. “I know why you’re concerned but rest assured, I didn’t leave a trail to follow any more than you did.”

“You agreed to tell me—”

“And I think you already know,” he says, a hint of ice entering his voice. She absorbs this, waiting for a sign that he’s lying, and sees none. And he’s right. Old Occam’s razor had guided her to the answer sometime after his initial appearance and before she’d finally drifted off to sleep in the dead hours of morning. When they’re finished here, she’ll have a phone call to make—one requiring the cell in the bedside drawer. A call to the past, long-distance for sure. The only bright side is the oppressive dread she’s felt since Eeling appeared on her doorstep is releasing some of its death grip.

She’s safe. The Crawfords are safe. For now.

Hattie signs the agreement and shoves it back across the table. Eeling disappears it into his bag. He’s finished setting up his workspace and she can see he’s ready to start in the way he holds himself, leaning forward like a kid in a movie seat. She can almost smell his anticipation, and it sickens her because she can feel it too. Except hers is of a completely different species. It makes her think of the basement door in her childhood home. How sometimes it would creak open if someone didn’t shut it well enough, revealing a space choked with cobwebbed clutter and darkness. How the basement floor always felt oily beneath her feet. Those stairs going down out of sight scared her almost more than anything as a child and now she’s standing at them again, looking into the abyss of memory, knowing what awaits her. Knowing it’s eager for her to return and see all that she remembers and what she’s forgotten. Because even though she faces as many of those painful memories on a daily basis as she can stand, there are also things buried beneath the basement floor. And they are still very much alive.

She comes back to rain drumming against the skylights and the sound of her name. Eeling is looking at her with what seems to be genuine concern, and she wonders how long she was gone.

“Let’s get this over with,” she says, setting her coffee cup aside.

“I want to start at the beginning.” He straightens, and to his credit, looks her in the eye. “I want you to tell me about when you first knew your son was the Bedfellow Killer.”

April 2018

The phone on Hattie’s desk rang, jangling her free of the quiet moment she’d been lost in.

She set her tablet down where she’d been creating next month’s lesson plan—she was going to teach Hatchet to her sixth graders—and she’d been deep in thought, staring across the empty second-floor classroom with thick spring sunshine slanting over the rows of desks.

The ringing was like a cold slap, so sudden and shrill it clenched something in her chest. Startled me was what she told herself at the time, but later, when that long, long, terrible day was coming to a close, she would wonder if she knew bad news had been on the other end of the line. The life-altering kind. Had somehow known that afterward nothing would ever be the same.

When she picked up the handset the last person she would have guessed to be on the other end would have been Leah Sterling, Tommy’s former girlfriend. Yet she knew her voice just the same even in its broken and tear-strained state. Had known it well for the last twelve years ever since Leah had shown up on Hattie’s porch with her hands clasped before her—a young girl with straight golden hair and scabs on her knees from falling from a bike or a skateboard, asking if Tommy was home.

“Hattie? Oh God, I’ve been trying to get you on your cell, but you weren’t answering.” A gasping inhale. “It’s Tommy.”

Dreamlike, she opened the desk drawer where she kept her cell during school hours and saw four missed calls from Leah’s number. “What’s happening, Leah? What are you talking about?”

“He . . . he . . . Tommy is—” A drawn-out wheeze from her end in which Hattie played out a dozen horrific scenarios, all of which involved the death of her only child.

“Leah, honey, I need you to calm down and take a breath, okay? Just breathe, then tell me what’s going on.” While she listened to the young woman on the other end do just that, she tried taking her own steadying breaths, but she was terrified now. Something had happened to her son, and it was bad. A weak tingling had invaded her legs and she was infinitely glad she was sitting; otherwise, she might’ve fallen down.

“Sorry, okay, I’m sorry,” Leah said. “They just . . . they wouldn’t tell me where they were taking him.”

“Who, honey?” Images of ambulances and a sheet-covered body on a stretcher flitted through her mind.

“The police. They . . . had him in handcuffs and he was only in his sweatpants. I tried talking to one of the cops, but they wouldn’t tell me anything.” Leah released a long, shuddering breath. “They just put him in a car and took him away.”

The time after Leah’s call was a needle-skip of movement and jumbled thought.

Trying, and failing, to process what was actually happening, Hattie hurried out of South-Central Middle School, not pausing to reply to the two substitutes exiting the teacher’s lounge. Didn’t recall getting in her car or leaving the parking lot, only navigating the streets ten miles over the town’s speed limit before skidding to a halt before the modest brownstone city hall and the police precinct housed within. By then she had wrestled her panic down enough to realize she hadn’t called Ed. He would be home now from Scots-Jacobs High where he taught wood- and metalworking. She decided it could wait until she learned more about what was happening—when this mistake is all cleared up, she told herself as she went inside the precinct entrance, all the while trying to slow the chaotic beating of her heart.

A desk sergeant, the only person who seemed to be in the building, repelled her requests with polite but dead-end answers. Tommy is being held for questioning in an ongoing investigation. No, you can’t see him at the moment. You and your family will receive information soon.

Unable to think of anything else to do, she headed home. But as her driveway came into view, the shocked daze surrounding her fell away at the sight of several police cruisers parked there. So this was why the precinct had been so utterly quiet—the entire force was at her house. By the time she pulled to a stop and shut the car off, her heart was thumping hard again, its throb actually painful against her breastbone. It didn’t help that she’d called both Tommy’s and Ed’s cells half a dozen times on the drive without an answer. Ed typically left his phone lying carelessly somewhere in the house, half annoyed when she mentioned he should keep it on him. Now her anger at his stubborn Luddism ceded to dread because in this new capsized reality, she wondered if something terrible had happened to her husband too.

But then she spotted Ed moving her way alongside an aging bald man in a cheap brown suit. Her husband’s normally placid expression was creased with tension, his gait stiff and so foreign she thought in another time and place she wouldn’t have recognized him. Hattie climbed out into the light drizzle, suddenly sure she must be dreaming. That in the afterschool quiet she’d put her head down on her desk like any number of her students had over the years and fallen asleep. Yet she could feel the rain wetting her hair, her face, speckling the bare skin of her arms in cold pinpricks. Could make out the ugly pattern of the cop’s suit jacket and smell the faint whiff of cigarette smoke coming off him as he neared and held out a hand for her to shake.

“Mrs. Conlee, I’m Detective Ramsby, state police,” he said, squinting against the weather. He was at least an inch shorter than her and wore a thick goatee that only seemed to magnify his baldness.

“Where is he?” she asked. “Where’s our son?”

“I was just speaking with your husband about the situation. Maybe we could go inside,” Ramsby said. Hattie peered at Ed. Grim-lipped and silent, her husband nodded.

They sat at the dining room table. Through the nearest window she could see two or three uniformed officers going in and out of Ed’s shop, all of them wearing blue latex gloves. Ed sat beside her, their hands folded together atop the table. After consulting his cell for a moment, Ramsby set it aside and looked at each of them.

“I’m sure you’re both very concerned, and I’ll answer all your questions to the best of my ability, but first I need to ask some of my own.” Ed’s hand tightened on hers and she squeezed back.

“Go ahead,” Hattie said.

“Can you tell me the last time you spoke with your son?” he asked.

“Two nights ago.”

“And where was he at the time?”

“Here, with us. He came to visit for Ed’s birthday and stayed overnight.”

“And his current residence is the apartment at 12 Oak Street?”

“Yes.”

“And how did he seem the last time you saw him?”

“Fine. He was fine.”

“And he’s in his final year of college, correct? How’s it gone? Any trouble or hiccups?”

“No, not at all. He was getting ready for his final in Death and Culture. It’s on Tuesday.” She wasn’t sure why she included these details, maybe to reestablish a toehold in normalcy.

“Have either of you noticed any change in character as of late? Anything out of the ordinary? Outbursts? New or increased alcohol or drug use?”

“No.”

“And how about while he was growing up? Any significant behavioral problems? Bullying? Minor run-ins with the law?”

“No. Nothing like that.”

“Were you aware of Tommy’s relationship with a Cheryl Barton?”

The name swam faintly familiar amid the churning anxiety. Tommy had been seeing a Cheryl Barton for the last couple months or so. He’d said this offhandedly several weeks ago on one of their regular calls. The fact he was dating someone other than Leah hung in the heavy silence between them. At the time she took a page from Ed’s book and hadn’t pressed him on it because she sensed he hadn’t wanted to talk about it. Now she began to wish she had. “Yes. He mentioned they’d started seeing each other a while back.”

“And how was their relationship?”

“I don’t know, like I said, they’d just started dating. Why?”

Ramsby nodded as if it were an answer, then glanced around like he was seeing his surroundings for the first time. “Really nice place you’ve got. How long have you lived here?”

“Twenty years,” Ed said, his voice husky.

“Good distance out of town, not too far or too close. My wife and I always talked about moving out of the city but never made it. Least not yet. Maybe when I hit retirement in a few years.”

Hattie waited for something more, some segue, but when the detective didn’t continue she said, “I’m sorry, but can you please explain what’s going on? Where is Tommy right now?” Fear simmered inside her. If she didn’t get some answers, some reassurance, that this was all a huge misunderstanding soon, it would boil over and she would lose what little composure she was fighting to maintain.

Ramsby surveyed them. “He’s being questioned at state police headquarters in Harrisburg.”

“For what?” Ed said, leaning forward. He wasn’t a large man, but instructing antsy teens in proper power tool use year in and year out had blunted his tact.

When Ramsby hesitated Hattie said, “Did something happen to Cheryl? Is that why you’re asking about her?” She swallowed a bitterness in the back of her throat but it wouldn’t go away.

Ramsby seemed to consider this, and in the way he pursed his lips thoughtfully, Hattie began to feel dislike, which bordered on something stronger. “An individual your son has been known to associate with has been found deceased. At this time, I cannot comment on the cause of death or their identity.” Ed released her hand and stood, heading for the living room. “Mr. Conlee? I’m not finished yet.”

Ed reappeared a second later, his phone pressed to his ear. He stared at the detective. A few seconds passed, then Ed spoke low and steady into his cell. “Billy, I need you to call me back right away. There’s been some kind of trouble with Tommy. He’s being held at the state police headquarters in Harrisburg. I need you to go over there and sort this out. Thanks.”

Billy Wescot. One of Ed’s childhood friends who practiced law out of Philadelphia. Bill and his wife Maggie had been out to their place only two weeks ago for dinner and drinks. They’d all gotten slightly tipsy and laughed so much her stomach was sore the next day. That seemed light-years away now.

Ed sat beside her again. “We won’t be answering any more questions until we’ve spoken to our attorney. And we want to speak to Tommy. Right now.”

Ramsby studied him, a thousand interrogation rooms reflected in his half-lidded eyes. “You could do a lot to help him by talking with me.”

“Not unless you’re going to tell us exactly why you’re holding our son,” Ed replied.

“Well, that’s unfortunate,” Ramsby said. But something in the way he said it made Hattie’s stomach tense even more than it was. He didn’t sound disappointed at all. Like it didn’t really matter one way or another if they spoke to him.

He sounded satisfied.

“Your son will be allowed a phone call so he should be in touch with you soon.” Ramsby stood and drew out a business card, laying it on the table. “I can be reached at the second number day or night if you’d like to continue the conversation. Otherwise, you can direct your inquiries to headquarters in Harrisburg or communicate through your attorney.” He paused at the door, looking back at them. “I would extend the same silence to the press if I were you. I’m sure they’ll be along shortly.” Without another word he went outside and spoke briefly to the uniformed officers before all of them retreated to their cars and backed out of the driveway onto the county road. A moment later they were gone.

Hattie sat numbly, watching after them. The smeary look of the darkening world beyond the window filling her up. Nothing was clear anymore as it had been only hours ago, and she longed more than anything for it to be put right again. “What the hell’s happening?” she asked, half forgetting Ed was only feet away so when he spoke, she flinched.

“It’s a mistake. One big mistake.” The simplicity of this took root. It had to be, there was no other option. To consider any alternative, what Ramsby was implying, was impossible. Not their son. Not Tommy.

Ed went to the liquor cabinet and poured a few fingers of bourbon into a juice glass and downed most of it in one drink. He inhaled deeply, then started searching for something on his phone.

“What are you doing?” Hattie asked, hearing the floaty sound of her voice as if it were coming from somewhere else. Someone else.

“Calling the state police. This is all some big fuckup and I’m going to have Billy nail their asses to the wall.” He stepped into the next room, phone once again against his ear. She stood at the doorway, listening but not really hearing his words.

Faintly Hattie realized she was teetering on the edge of shock. She finished off the remainder of Ed’s glass, and the burning brought her back enough to make her own call. Again Tommy’s phone went to voicemail. She considered leaving a message but didn’t trust her voice not to quaver. The last thing he needed was hearing his mother in hysterics.

She paced out to the front windows again. Who else, who else? Who could she call? There was Dustin and Colm, Tommy’s closest friends. Boys she had known since they were only ten years old. Surrogate sons, Ed had affectionately called them, and they were. They’d lived half their lives under her roof and they might know something more about Tommy’s situation. Something to prove all her terrible thoughts wrong. She was about to ring Dustin when movement at the end of their driveway drew her attention.

A white van with the local news channel’s insignia had just jerked to a stop behind her car, and through the rain, which was falling harder now, the doors popped open and several people piled out. She felt Ed’s approach, one of his strongly calloused hands settling on her shoulder.

“It’s the press,” she heard herself say.

“You get the shades.” His hand tensed and was gone. “I’ll lock the doors.”

The call they were waiting for came several hours later. After more and more news vehicles had gathered at the head of their driveway like flies to spoiled meat, after Billy Wescot had called and said he was almost to Harrisburg and not to come down since he would probably be able to get Tommy out and back to them before they could get there, after the storm intensified to a watery roar on the roof and lightning ignited the darkening sky.

A pot of coffee was brewing when an unfamiliar number lit up Hattie’s cell. She answered before the second ring, placing the call on speakerphone so Ed could hear as well.

“Tommy?” she said.

A quiet pause, then their son’s voice came from the phone, sounding so much younger than his twenty-two years of age. “Mom.”

Her throat closed with emotion. “Honey, are you okay?” she managed.

“Yeah, I’m . . . I’m all right. They’re keeping me here, though. They won’t let me go home.”

“What?” She locked eyes with Ed, who sank into the closest chair. “What do you mean? Bill wasn’t able to get you out?”

“No. He just left. He’s headed your way. He said it would be better to go over everything in person.”

“We’re coming down there,” Hattie said. “Right now.”

“No, don’t bother—visiting hours are over, they’ll just turn you away. I asked.”

“Son, what happened?” Ed said. “What’s all this about?”

Tommy made a strangled sound and Hattie’s vision swam. “Cheryl’s dead. They think I killed her.”

There it was. Their unsaid fears laid bare.

Ed scoffed, breaking the quiet. “Well, that’s ridiculous. Don’t worry, once Billy gets here, we’ll straighten this out and come down there and get you.”

Hattie couldn’t see how that was possible given Billy just tried that exact thing to no avail but didn’t say so. “Honey, what are they saying? What did they tell you?”

“Just that Cheryl was dead and they know that I did it and I should confess.”

She squeezed her eyes shut. “Tell us what happened. Take your time.”

The silence stretched out, broken by a rockslide of thunder and a fresh spate of rain against the kitchen windows. “I broke up with Cheryl a couple weeks ago because Leah and I were getting back together,” Tommy finally said. “She was really upset. I told her I was sorry but . . .” He paused, then went on in a lower voice as if he were afraid of being overheard. “There was a party last night. I drank too much. Cheryl showed up and we had a fight and then she left.”

Hattie found herself leaning so close to the phone her nose was only inches from the tabletop. “Then what?” A new silence crept over the line. One she cared less and less for. “Tommy?” His reply was so quiet neither of them could understand what he said and Hattie had to ask him to repeat himself.

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean?”

“I . . . I can’t remember. It’s all black until this afternoon. The police woke me up pounding on the door.” On his end there was a murmur and Tommy said, “They’re saying I have to go now.”

“Tell them we need more time.”

“Mom, Dad, I’m sor—”

But then their son was gone, and they were left with only the emptiness of a dead connection.

Hattie went for the phone as if to call him back, but Ed slid it away from her. She looked up at him, ready to yell. They had to call Tommy again, get him back on the line to hear his voice because he was so far away and alone and afraid and, and—

She reached out and Ed was there. Solid and real as the tears came and the storm raged on, and the rain fell down.

By the time headlights washed across the walls and the throaty rumble of Billy Wescot’s Chevy Camaro filtered through the storm, she’d regained a measure of calm.

It was Ed. He had that effect on her.

He’d held her while the tears ran their course and contributed some of his own, crying them in his very Ed way—silent and stoic. Then he’d gotten them each another drink of bourbon, which at first she’d refused but he insisted on. And that had helped, too, rounding off the corners of her panic and making it something she could handle again. Ed had begun laying out a plan—getting the lowdown from Billy when he arrived, then mapping out what legalities they could take, which mostly included suing the pants off the State of Pennsylvania. We’ll be able to retire and so will Tommy when this is all over, he’d said finishing his drink. Then he’d gone to check to make sure the driveway was clear for Billy’s arrival and the press was keeping to the county road.

She marveled a little at him then. How reserved but steady the man was she’d made a life with. It was why he was so good at woodworking, his patience and ability to see a project through until all the pieces came together no matter how long it took. But that wasn’t the only reason he was faring better than she was at the moment.

It was because he’d gone through something like this before.

One week after his fifteenth birthday, Ed had returned home from school to find his father, an out-of-work insurance salesman who’d suffered with lifelong depression, lying on their front porch beside an overturned bottle of whiskey and his twelve-gauge shotgun. Most of his father’s head was gone.

Seeing this and knowing his mother and younger sister would be home shortly, Ed had covered his father’s body with a blanket, then hung a large tarp across the front porch to block out the view from the street and anyone passing by. He called the police, then phoned his aunt who lived just two blocks down as well as his grandparents who arrived only moments after Ed’s mother and sister.

At fifteen, and in the grip of his own shock and loss, he’d not only kept the horrific spectacle of his father’s death away from his family but also from the prying lenses of news cameras while making sure there was emotional support waiting to help shoulder the grief.

When he told her this several months into their relationship Hattie had been stunned. She’d asked him how he’d managed it so young, and Ed had merely shrugged in his unselfconscious way and said, I wanted to spare them as much of it as possible. It was the least I could do.

That was Ed. The least he could do was always more than enough.

She watched now as he swung the front door wide to admit a soaking Billy Wescot who appeared out of the dark like a solemn ghost.

Billy was a large man with an even bigger laugh. Hattie had known him as long as she’d known Ed and the sight of him, even with grimness palling his wide friendly features, was reassuring.

Billy embraced them both, his normal spine-popping bear hug a gentle squeeze tonight as if she were made of glass. “Thanks for coming,” Ed said as they moved to the kitchen table and settled there.

“Goddamn storm. Like heaven busted a water main or something,” Billy said, winging away some moisture gathered at his hairline. “I see the vultures are already roosting out there.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of the news vans.

“They showed up right after the cops were here,” Hattie said. “How the hell did they find out so fast?”

“Most precincts have one or two officers who leak certain info to the press. Pretty commonplace. Do you have anything to drink?”

Ed splashed a glass half full of bourbon and handed it to his friend. Billy sipped deeply and closed his eyes. “That’s good. Thank you.” Lightning flared so bright and close that Hattie flinched. Thunder followed, vibrating a few pieces of silverware on the kitchen counter.

“How was he?” she asked.

“Afraid, naturally. But after we talked for a while he calmed down and he seemed better when I left,” Billy said.

“Tell us what the hell’s going on,” Ed said. Billy released a long sigh, then began to speak.

“So, like the press, I’ve got my own contact at the state police, and this is what he knew so far. Tommy’s former girlfriend, Cheryl Barton, was found dead early this morning by a roommate who was out of town last night. She was stabbed to death. No forced entry. Cheryl died sometime between the hours of two and five a.m. as far as they can tell. She was last seen leaving a house party on Sixteenth Street. There’s CCTV footage from a camera at an adjacent business of her arriving at her home fifteen minutes later. About an hour after that a car pulls up and drops someone off before pulling away.” Here Billy takes a long pull of bourbon. “It was Dustin’s car, and he was dropping Tommy off.”

One of Hattie’s hands stole to her mouth, pressing firmly against her lips until they began to hurt. She felt her head shake slightly.

“And he went inside?” Ed asked.

“The entry of the house is out of view. Tommy goes in that direction and doesn’t reappear,” Billy said.

“So he might not have gone inside at all,” Hattie said.

“Maybe not. He only lives a few blocks away. He might have knocked and Cheryl may not have answered. Or maybe she did and they talked and then he walked home.” Billy shrugged. “The worrying thing is Tommy can’t recall anything after the fight, which was . . .”

“What?” Hattie asked.

“Quite the scene from what I gather; lots of yelling, a thrown drink, and near the end Cheryl slapped Tommy. There’re dozens of witnesses and several video recordings.”

Ed rested his elbows on the table and placed his face in his hands. Hattie sat stock-still, letting this all wash over her like a cold wave. Thunder came again but it was farther off, like an insult tossed over the shoulder of an angry man.

“Okay,” Ed said quietly. “So they had a public fight and he went to her house. But that doesn’t mean he killed her. I mean, it’s Tommy for Christ’s sake, he wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

Something changed in Billy’s face and the cold Hattie felt dropped several degrees. “Apparently, there was some evidence found in Tommy’s apartment, though what it was I don’t know—my guy wouldn’t tell me any specifics.”

Hattie saw Ramsby’s expression again, the satisfaction when they’d quit answering his questions, and her stomach turned. “Is that why they wouldn’t let him go home?” Hattie asked.

“Yes, I think so.”

“Could it be something that belonged to Cheryl? Because that could be explained.”

“It could. But my informant did mention something else that was . . . troubling.”

“What’s that?” Ed asked.

“Have either of you heard of the Bedfellow Killer?” Billy said slowly.

Some memory chimed faintly in Hattie’s mind. A report on the radio or snippet on the news, but the details were obscured. “Not really,” she said. “Why?”

Billy picked up his glass, considered it, then set it back down. “Three women were killed in the last two years; similar victims, same MO, same murder weapon.”

Ed frowned. “What’s that got to do with Tommy?”

Billy stared down into his drink, the silence spooling away like a line leading to something enormous and terrible. “You’re saying—” Hattie struggled and failed to get the rest of the words out.

“There’s only one reason my guy at the state police would mention it. Cheryl’s death must have fit the profile somehow.” Billy looked at each of them in turn. “They think she’s the Bedfellow’s fourth victim.”

There was more after that, but she was only vaguely aware of it. Billy and Ed’s continued conversation was like hearing an episode of TV playing low in the next room.

Billy offered to represent Tommy and they of course accepted. He laid out a few basic guidelines for the coming days and weeks, first and foremost being they were not to speak to the press, or the cops for that matter. Let me handle the rest, he said when they’d talked as much as they could bear and Billy was getting ready to leave. He’d been standing in the doorway open to the still-drizzling night and had squeezed their hands, holding one of theirs in each of his own. I know this is fucking scary, but I’ve seen things look bad before and turn out fine. We know Tommy, and he’s not capable of this. So, time and evidence are our friends here. We’ll know a lot more soon.

What little comfort he’d imparted faded almost as quickly as his taillights in the drenching dark. Hattie had watched from the living room window past the shade she drew slightly aside, scanning the ranks of vehicles out there on the county road. There were fewer now but still at least half a dozen holdouts, hoping to catch a glimpse of the parents of the accused killer.

Serial killer.

No. It wasn’t possible. This was Tommy, her only child. She knew him as well as one human being could know another. She’d birthed him, held him moments after he breathed air for the first time, nursed him, watched him while he slept and as he learned to walk. This was her son.

And yet—

She let the curtain drop back into place and stood bracing herself with one hand against the wall. Children became adults and built private worlds their parents had no access to. Tommy had been away at college for almost four years, and she’d proudly watched him grow in that time. Of course he had come home to visit often, and there were the weekly phone calls he never missed, but on a deeper level she had known he was drifting from her and Ed. Becoming someone both rooted in who they had known and someone entirely new.

In the darker half of her heart where doubt lived, she wondered if that someone had a secret side. A deeply violent side. Would she have sensed it? Would there have been warning signs on the roadside of his childhood?

The heart always comes home.

Her breath stilled and the room contracted at its edges. Weakness filled her limbs and Hattie managed to guide herself onto the nearby couch and perch there, trying and failing to force away the memory of that day many years ago when she’d read those words. Hoping now they would continue to be meaningless. Deeply disturbing, yes, but meaningless. Just a poem. Just a frightening poem, nothing more.

A hand touched her shoulder, and it was all she could do not to scream.

Ed rounded the couch and sat beside her. He was the same man she’d kissed goodbye that morning, but in the low light from the single lamp burning on the end table he looked ancient. The gray in his beard seemed to have run rampant and the lines around his eyes were deep slashes of shadow. She hadn’t looked in a mirror yet, but she supposed she had undergone the same transformation. The weight of worry. And this is only the start.

“I looked it up,” he said after a minute.

“Looked what up?”

“The Bedfellow Killer.”

“Why?”

“Because I thought if I read about him, I’d know it wasn’t Tommy.” Ed grimaced. “It was something Ramsby asked me. I didn’t know . . .”

Hattie turned to face him more fully. “What are you talking about?”

Ed licked his lips and gained the same look of keen concentration she’d seen many times before in his shop when a project was becoming especially difficult. “They call him the Bedfellow because he stayed with the women overnight after he killed them. He lay down beside them in bed and slept there from what the police gathered.”

“I don’t want to talk about this. It’s a mistake like you said. We’ll go see Tommy tomorrow and Billy will clear it up.”

He continued on as if he hadn’t heard her. “That was disturbing enough, but it was the weapon . . . that’s why Ramsby asked.”

She waited, afraid to say anything. Afraid to stay quiet.

Ed swallowed and finally faced her, and she could see then that it wasn’t just the light or her imagination, he really did look older than even a few hours ago. “The articles said the murder weapon was an ice pick or some other narrow pointed tool. I was in the shop when the police got here. Ramsby was looking around and he asked me about my wood awl. Asked where I’d gotten it, how long I’d had it.”

“So?” Hattie felt as if she were falling in place. Plummeting inside herself without a bottom to stop her. Mostly because of how shaken her normally unflappable husband looked.

“He must’ve noticed how new the awl in the shop was. That’s because it’s a replacement.” Ed closed his eyes and when he reopened them, they shone with fear. “The original went missing a few years ago.”

14

For a long, terrible moment, the rain continues to pound on the roof and Hattie can hear her husband’s voice and believes it’s still then. That she’s still sitting on the couch with Ed, who will be dead forever in seven months, poised, roller coaster–like at the beginning of the nightmare, which hasn’t truly ended.

But then she notices the light outside the windows. It’s not dark. The rain isn’t coming down in a deep Pennsylvania night gale, it’s the drizzle of a northern East Coast afternoon. And though she’s not alone, it isn’t her husband sitting across from her, it’s a younger man with an ugly last name. He’s watching her intently, waiting for more. But there is none.

The past releases her with the reluctance of a jealous lover.

She comes back fully to the present, mouth dry, jaw aching, and hungry. Because they haven’t stopped to eat or drink anything or even go to the bathroom given the dull throb of her bladder. It’s like resurfacing from the other times she’s slipped free of reality and seen horrible things. Done horrible things.

Hattie jerks her head to the side reflexively, cutting the thought off clean. Eeling watches her for another second or two, then closes his laptop and sits back in his chair.

“So that’s when you knew?” he asks, still watching her. “That’s when you were sure he was the Bedfellow?”

Hattie swallows dryly. “It’s when I started to doubt he was innocent.”

“But you didn’t fully believe it.”

“No. Not really.”

“When—”

“The trial. When all the evidence was presented, which I’m guessing you’re well aware of.”

Eeling begins ticking fingers off, reciting in a monotone. “The murder weapon used in all four killings—your husband’s wood awl—was found tucked beneath your son’s bathroom sink. The shirt Tommy was wearing at the party where he was seen in an altercation with Cheryl Barton was at the bottom of his clothes hamper with smears of her blood on it. And the most damning of all—semen collected from the body matched Tommy’s DNA.”

Hattie doesn’t respond. She rises from her seat, stifling an age-groan, and runs herself a glass of water. She drinks the entire thing without stopping. Eeling eyes her water glass but doesn’t have the gall to ask for a drink. She wouldn’t have given him one in hell, and she guesses that’s why he doesn’t bother. “He didn’t have a solid alibi for any of the other three killings, so they were able to convict on each of them. Unanimous guilty verdict,” he says, leaning forward. There’s a faint tremor in his hands that could be excitement or something else before he clasps them together. “I’ve read all the police reports and court transcripts. Interviewed dozens of people surrounding the case. But that’s not why I’m here.”

“So why are you? The case was national news. There’ve been countless articles written about it, half a dozen books, and at least two shitty limited streaming series. What are you hoping to squeeze out of this that everyone else hasn’t already?”

“That’s simple—you. Your perspective as the mother of a killer. And others who were close to him as well. My book isn’t really about the crimes, it’s about the people connected to them.”

“How original.” Hattie jerks the dishwasher open and places her glass inside. Slams it shut. “Like that hasn’t been done to death.”

“You’re right. But my book will be different. It’s—”

“It’s what?” Hattie asks when he doesn’t go on.

“Let’s just say no one’s written about Tommy like I am.”

She’s about to ask him what the hell that means when he stands and points down the hallway. “May I use your bathroom?”

She wants to tell him to piss off. Literally. But it’s a pettiness she doesn’t have the energy for. “Second door on the right.” He disappears down the hall, and it’s a moment before the sound of him urinating floats out to her. Without really considering what she’s doing, Hattie moves to the table and opens his laptop.

The computer is password protected, and she’s not sure why she thought it wouldn’t be. As quickly as she can she types in “12345” in the password box and hits “Enter.” Denied. The toilet flushes as she punches in “Password,” which is rejected as well. She’s straining to think of some other cliché combination of letters and numbers when the bathroom door opens and Eeling’s footsteps approach from the hall.

Hattie snaps the laptop shut and resumes her place near the sink as he enters the room. “So I was thinking next you could tell me about—”

“No more today.” She’s surprised at the finality in her voice.

Eeling opens his mouth as if to argue, but instead he says, “No. I think you’re right. That’s enough for today. We can pick up tomorrow morning.”

He packs his things and she follows him to the entry. “I want to know what’s in this book,” she says as he’s about to go out the door.

“You will. When we’re finished, I’ll tell you everything.”

“No. Before we go any further.”

“You’re really not in the position to bargain.” She bites the inside of her cheek to keep from replying. He’s right. He holds the higher ground, and there’s nothing she can do but accept it at this point. Something softens in Eeling’s expression. “I know you think I’m a sleaze and I’m sorry this hurts to talk about. But maybe you’ll understand in the end. Maybe you’ll even thank me.”

With that he goes out into the rain, leaving her open mouthed and incredulous. Thank him? Thank him for dredging up some of the most painful moments of my life? It’s good Ed’s handgun is locked away, because if she were holding it now, the receding shape of Eeling’s back might prove to be too tempting of a target. She stands watching as the headlights blink on and he swings the vehicle in a short arc and glides away down the drive, wheels splashing through puddles.

Once he’s gone, she continues to stare at the empty drive, mind whirring. Then she snags her light coat from the hook near the door as well as her car keys and rushes out into the weather.

In less than a minute she’s behind the wheel of the Toyota and accelerating along the county road, rain gliding up the windshield in mercury trails. It’s not long before Eeling’s car comes into view.

Hattie slows, keeping enough distance between them so she can barely see his taillights.

And she follows.

15

JT’s Beverage is an afterthought of a building beside a derelict greenhouse on the south side of Havensport. Hattie coasts into the parking lot of a café on the opposite side of the road when Eeling’s car turns into the liquor store’s pull-off.

She parks and douses her lights, hoping she did a decent job tailing him. It’s the first time she’s ever followed anyone, and what she knows about it begins and ends with TV and movies. If Eeling noticed her he gives no sign, exiting his vehicle and jogging through the drizzle to JT’s brightened entrance. While he’s inside she has just enough time to question what it is she hopes to accomplish by following him. The answer comes a second before Eeling reappears and it’s surprisingly simple.

She wants to reclaim a measure of control over the upending of her life.

If she’s to be an unwilling interviewee, then she’s going to gather as much knowledge about her interviewer as she can.

When he returns to his car carrying a single brown bag, she recalls the slight tremor to Eeling’s hands near the end of their session. He’s only been in the store for perhaps a minute and in Hattie’s experience, alcoholics usually don’t dillydally when buying their fix. They know what they want.

Back on the highway and following at as much distance as she can without losing view of his car completely, Hattie watches the last signs of Havensport fade away and the starved October trees close in. It isn’t long before Eeling’s right blinker flashes through the rain and he turns onto a narrow side road. She slows, counting to ten, then turns in as well, glad to see he hasn’t stopped anywhere close. His taillights flash once at a corner a half mile in the distance before rounding it, and when Hattie follows thirty seconds later, she sees he has turned into the driveway of a small house on a shallow rise.

She coasts to a stop on the side of the road and watches Eeling drive up to the front of the house and park before climbing out, again hurrying with both his laptop and liquor bags held tightly to his chest. He doesn’t look around as he goes, and then he’s inside the little two-story and lights are coming on even as the afternoon slides into dusk.

Hattie sits in the idling car on the side of the deserted road and turns the ignition off. The patter of rain fills the void left by the engine. Eeling is framed in glimpses through the little house’s windows—first at one, then another as he traverses rooms. In what must be the kitchen he takes a tumbler down and yanks a bottle of bourbon from the JT’s paper sack and pours himself a large drink. He stands sipping it for a long moment, then moves into the next room, snapping on another light. He does something on his phone and faint bass thumping filters down to where she sits.

Music. He’s playing music on a portable speaker if she has to guess. And . . . and dancing. The bastard is actually dancing.

And why not? He’s gotten what he wants. Gotten her to bend to his will while holding the last good thing in her life hostage. He’ll spend the next days wringing as many memories out of her as he can, then move on to whatever else he’s orchestrating.

Maybe you’ll even thank me.

She doesn’t recall leaving the 4Runner’s warm dryness, only that she’s now halfway up the little house’s driveway, walking through the rain with steady purpose. Yes. She’s filled with it. Can feel it flooding her veins with each heartbeat. He’s dancing! Now she can hear the music and recognizes the song. It’s the one Tommy used to play at full volume when he still only had his learner’s permit. It’s “Everlasting Light” by the Black Keys. She would know it anywhere.

As she’s passing by the nondescript rental car she becomes aware there’s something cold in her hand. It’s a stone—oblong, dark, and heavy with a natural cleft where her fingers fit as if made for them. When or where she picked it up she isn’t sure. All she knows is she needs it because Eeling is dancing and maybe even singing along now that she’s getting closer to the front door.

Then her free hand is on the doorknob, turning it slowly and smoothly, though any sound she makes won’t be heard beneath the crooning of The Keys. They were Tommy’s favorite band, and she’d felt a stroke of pride every time he played one of their songs because she was a fan too. How rare and wonderful to share a love of something as magical as music with your son.

The door is unlocked and she swings it wide, not bothering to shut it again, weather be damned. The entryway leads into the kitchen, then into a dining room where Eeling is standing with his back to her, half bent over his laptop on the table. Probably checking his notes from the day, reveling in the treasure scavenged from the wreckage of her life. He’s still holding his drink in one hand and his hips are swaying in time to the music.

She crosses the distance between them as if gliding, and brings the rock up as he shuts the laptop and begins to turn. He’s singing along to the song and she thinks she might be, too, as he sees her and his eyes widen with shock and she brings the rock around with all her force to the side of his head and feels the sickening/satisfying crunch as his skull gives way.

Hattie strikes him again as his legs fold, and something warm spatters the back of her hand and wrist. As the music begins to fade she raises the rock for a last blow, not that it’s needed but because she can’t stop now if she wanted to. And it’s not only the music that’s fading but all sound, like a universal dial is being twisted quickly all the way back. The rock feels different in her hand, too—much slimmer and cylindrical—and her teeth hurt. They hurt because she’s clenching them and the room is fading along with the smell of Eeling’s blood and brains and she’s beginning to fall—

16

Hattie blinks at the ghostly image of her own reflection in the Toyota’s side window. Dusk is settling and the lights in Eeling’s house blaze like it’s on fire inside.

For a terrifying second she fears it is. Then she sees Eeling himself move past a window and enter the kitchen to refill his drink.

A hissing sigh escapes her that might’ve been a moan if she were able to open her mouth, but her teeth are still clamped together, making them ache down to their roots and up to her temples. And that’s not the only pain she’s aware of—her hand is cramping, and when she looks it’s not gripping a blood-smeared rock but the 4Runner’s steering wheel. She’s holding it so tightly all her fingers are white.

With effort she releases her death grip and lets both hands settle into her lap. It’s happening again. I knew it was coming back the moment I started seeing the owl and now it’s undeniable. She quiets the thought and takes stock of everything.

Eeling is in the house, still very much alive and well. She didn’t smash his skull with a rock. She never even got out of the vehicle. She proves this to herself by running her palms over the fabric of her coat and pants, feeling their dryness. This grounds her even more than seeing Eeling moving back and forth through the house unharmed. Because she’s sure she could imagine him alive when he isn’t but not so sure she could trick herself into believing she isn’t soaking wet from being out in the rain.

When she can drive again Hattie starts the vehicle and swings it in a tight arc and heads back the way she came, giving Eeling’s place a last look in the mirror before it’s gone.

17

As she drives the slash of the windshield wipers provides a calming metronomic background.

The terror is waning from coming to from the . . . the what? What had the therapists all agreed to call the spells she’d experienced after Tommy’s conviction? Intrusive thoughts. That was it. Overwhelming and disturbing images that were out of character was how one shrink put it. They were definitely overwhelming and disturbing, and “intrusive” fit the bill as well. “Intrusive” made her think of worms burrowing in from all angles, digging deeper into her brain until it was their thoughts in her head instead of her own.

When they’d first appeared, the episodes were brief lapses into imagining none of it had happened. Daydreams that Tommy hadn’t done any of the horrible things he was on trial for, that he had graduated and asked Leah to marry him and all their lives were as mundane and happy as could be.

But then they became . . . dark.

She’d read about other families—other mothers of people who had committed horrific acts—and the manifestations of stress spanned a broad spectrum. Cancer was common, as were heart attacks, strokes, and mental breaks. At the time she’d assumed this was her way of coping but struggled to adequately convey how powerful the thoughts were, how immersive. She wasn’t sure any of the doctors ever truly understood. Because they weren’t just fleeting ideas, they were closer to full-blown hallucinations. Daymares was the only name coming close enough to how they felt. Waking nightmares that bore her away, then returned her to reality to question whether or not they’d been real.

Because it felt so very real.

“But it’s not,” she says aloud, making the turn toward Lantern Cove. It was stress-induced before and that’s what it is now. The mind attempting to process devastating amounts of anxiety or anger or loss. But explanations didn’t make it any less disturbing. She can still feel the reverberations of Eeling’s breaking skull in her arm, and she rubs it absently as her driveway comes into view.

Being back in the house is a little better. The familiarity combined with the warm dryness is good medicine. The surf’s crashing but she can’t see it given the cloud cover and rain. She’s not really sure she would want to since that might mean spotting the owl in its customary place, and now with the mental pump primed she may recall the other owl she saw when—

Hattie bites down hard in the inside of her mouth. The spike of pain is enough to derail her thinking, but the possibility of falling into it again is so potent it’s like teetering on the edge of a cliff.

She goes to the den and stokes the fire, holding her hands out to warm them, watching the flames dance and weave. Maybe it’s all in the blood. Ed’s father suffered from depression ending in suicide. My mother had an undiagnosed anxiety disorder of some kind. I have the daymares and Tommy . . .

There’s a possibility Tommy’s darkness was passed down genetically somehow, but she’s sure her own instability was brought on by the domino effect of his actions, not some mental pitfall waiting for her to drop into regardless.

Which leaves Julian.

It’s been difficult to remove love’s bias, but she’s managed to observe her grandson in a cold, clinical way, seeking out any early warnings she may have overlooked in her own son, both afraid of seeing something and even more terrified to miss it. But other than his intelligent, quiet nature, Julian is an average little boy. At least for now.

She reluctantly leaves her post in front of the stove and goes to her bedroom, pulling the old iPhone from its place in the drawer. There are no missed calls, and she hesitates only briefly before finding the contact she’s looking for and dials it. The line trills and she takes a deep breath as it’s answered.

“Hello?” Leah Sterling says.

She can see the woman her son fell in love with now, probably perched on the bay window seat in the Massachusetts home Hattie visited only once nearly six years ago. And in that single word she can hear the girl who Leah once was, as much of a daughter to her as Colm and Dustin are sons. So many miles and so much jagged life separating them now.

But she can see Julian’s birth mother clearly just the same.

“Leah. It’s Hattie.”

And there must be something in her voice, too, because Leah inhales sharply before she says, “Oh God. He found you, didn’t he.”

August 2018

Hattie could see Leah had been crying as soon as she got out of her car and started toward the house.

At a distance the red puffiness around her eyes was visible, but even if it hadn’t been, Hattie guessed she would’ve known she was upset. You watch someone grow up, all the way from Band-Aiding skinned knees to helping pick out a prom dress, and you knew their looks. And the girl looked completely bereft.

Woman, Hattie thought, going to the front door to meet her. She’s a woman now. Even if Leah weren’t a year past legal drinking age the last five months would have prematurely aged her. Aged anyone. Hattie only had to look in the mirror—something she was aggrieved to do as of late—to know it was doubly true for her.

She opened the door and what little of Leah’s remaining composure wobbled, then fell completely. Fresh tears welled up and over the rims of her eyes and her mouth twisted in a pained white line. Hattie didn’t say anything, just opened her arms, and Leah stepped into them.

They stood framed there in the doorway, the late-summer air invading the coolness of the house. Over Leah’s trembling shoulders Hattie could see the few holdout reporters on the county road directing their cameramen to capture the moment. Let them have it, Hattie thought. Click and pick all they want. Goddamn vultures.

When Leah had quieted somewhat Hattie shut the door and guided her to a chair at the dining room table and sat beside her. She held one of Leah’s hands and waited. Leah wiped absently at her swollen eyes. “Sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to cry. I thought I got it all out on the way over.”

“It’s okay. Tears don’t scare me.”

She laughed a little. “Where’s Ed?”

“In his shop.” He’d been out there since she’d woken up that morning from a fitful sleep. Hadn’t been in for lunch or anything else all day. In the last six weeks it had become something of a second home for him. A sanctuary he retreated to more and more often, and she begrudged him it. Resented he had somewhere to go, and also that he wanted to go there instead of weathering the storm of their life shoulder to shoulder with her. She couldn’t recall the last time they’d exchanged more than a dozen words, and among the rest of the madness surrounding them the erosion of their relationship felt like a particularly bitter injury. If they didn’t have each other, what did they have?

“He’s not doing well, is he?” Leah said.

Hattie sighed. “No. He isn’t.”

They sat in the quiet, listening to the AC unit humming and the vents issuing their cold breath. And they sat in the knowing of one another, not needing words. Hattie could almost read the troubled thoughts scrolling across Leah’s mind. They were there in the creases of her forehead and the frown lines that had grown in recent months. All familiar, yet there was some new thing swimming beneath her expression Hattie couldn’t quite name.

“When did you last see him?” Leah finally asked.

“Two days ago. How about you?”

“I just came from there. I told him—I told him I couldn’t come to court anymore. It’s just—”

“Too much.”

“Yes.” Leah’s chin quivered slightly. “He said he understood.”

For an instant Hattie was jealous of her. Of the out Tommy had given his former girlfriend. The permission not to endure the endless hours in the stifling courtroom as evidence was paraded before you, inching ever closer to the reality that you hadn’t really known your only child at all. That he had been something other than what you’d always thought of him until you were sick with the knowledge of it.

Leah was crying silent tears again. “And I told him something else. Something I haven’t told anyone.”

“What is it, honey?”

Her answer was to move Hattie’s hand to her midsection.

Hattie had never experienced a blankness of mind before and always considered it a literary invention. But for several seconds as she felt the unmistakable swell of Leah’s belly her mind was a static howl of nothing.

Then her thoughts piled up and over one another, cascading through a blizzard of emotions. Joy to horror and every shade between. And only then did she really notice Leah’s clothing: a baggy sweatshirt and loose pajama pants, much too hot for the August weather. The attire was a departure from the cute, trim-fitting clothes Leah usually wore. Hattie had missed the transition camouflaging her condition and she guessed everyone else had as well.

“How—” Hattie’s voice failed at first and she had to wait a moment to find it again. “How far along?”

“Five months,” Leah said. “It was right after we got back together.”

Amid the astonishment there was a flash of memory of cleaning out Tommy’s bathroom while he’d still been living at home. She and Ed had been away for a week visiting his sister, and after they’d got back she’d been emptying the downstairs bathroom trash and caught sight of a used condom partially concealed in a twist of toilet paper, the prophylactic tied neatly off. A mixture of embarrassment and pride flowed through her as she carried on with the chores—shocked her son and Leah (both seventeen at the time) were sexually active while also deeply relieved they were being safe.

“I’m not sure how it happened, we were always careful,” Leah went on as if relaying Hattie’s thoughts. “But it happened. And by the time I knew for sure he’d . . .”

She didn’t need to finish. Hattie knew what had happened. She’d been living it since that April afternoon in her empty classroom.

“Your parents don’t know?”

“God, no. They’d kill me. Kill me twice.” Leah’s mother and father were conservative Christians, the kind whose social beliefs were firmly entrenched and supremely hypocritical in Hattie’s opinion. “It’s been so hard not saying anything and keeping my appointments a secret.” Leah touched her belly. “He started kicking last week.”

“He?” Hattie said, her voice trembling slightly.

“Yeah. It’s a boy.”

“What . . . what are you going to do?” Hattie asked carefully.

“I don’t know. At first I was so happy. And then . . .” Leah sniffled and swiped at her nose with the back of her hand, making her look so young it tore at Hattie’s heart a little. “I thought this was all going to get cleared up and then I could tell Tommy and we’d figure out what to do next together. But now I—” She shook her head. “I didn’t want to believe he’d done it. Down deep I still don’t. Not really. But I guess it doesn’t matter. Even if you don’t believe, things can still be true.”

Hattie took Leah in her arms again and stroked her hair. “It’ll be okay. Everything will be okay,” she said, feeling like she was making a promise she had no right to.

18

“I’m sorry,” Leah says now, bringing her back to the present. “I’m so sorry.”

Somewhere inside her, Hattie knew the moment Ross Eeling appeared on her front steps that Leah had sent him to her. Not told him exactly where she was per se, because even Leah doesn’t actually know where she lives, but pointed him in her general direction. That’s why Hattie had initially seen him at Haven’s Market—he’d been surveilling the local grocery like a lion stalking a water hole, just waiting for her to appear. She wonders how long he’d been watching her, making doubly sure she was the person he sought before revealing himself.

Any resentment she’s been carrying for Leah dissolves at hearing her voice. How sorry she is. Besides, there’s an obvious reason why Leah told Eeling where to look for her. “What did he threaten you with? Revealing who you and Dustin are to your friends and neighbors? Your employers?”

“Yes,” Leah says, voice husky with tears now. “He just showed up out of the blue one day saying he knew who we were and if we didn’t answer his questions, he’d tell everyone that—” She falters. There’s a rustle of sound and then the quality changes. “Hattie, I put you on speaker so Dustin can hear too.”

“Hi, Hattie,” Dustin says. Not so long ago she was “Mrs. Conlee” to him.

“Hello, D,” she replies, his old nickname coming out of reflex. She sees Dustin then, too, first a boy of ten—all gapped front teeth and dancing blue eyes, then the tall and graceful man he is now, probably still wearing his business casual attire from a day at the financial group where he works. She’s struck again by time’s passage, how only yesterday it seems she was watching Tommy and Dustin pedal furiously away on their bikes into a faultless summer day.

“I knew we should’ve called the cops,” Dustin says. “Goddamn him.”

“No, no, you did the right thing,” she says, not sure if that’s true or not. “He would have ruined everything for you. You might’ve lost your jobs, your friends, your home—”

“Still . . .” Dustin’s always been the hothead of the group she considers her adopted kids. The first to anger, but also the first to forgive.

“What did he want to know?” she asks.

“All about Tommy,” Leah says. Her tone is steadier, and it’s probably because of Dustin’s presence. Partially because he is the love in her life now having stepped into Tommy’s vacancy, and also because Hattie has sensed a chided quality to her whenever Dustin is near. As if he is a constant reminder of the mistake Leah made in falling in love with a murderer. In bearing his child. “He wanted to know about growing up together and when we started dating. About college. About Cheryl and—”

“Basic background stuff,” Dustin interjects. “He was really interested in the night Cheryl died. The party and whatnot. We told him everything we knew.”

“Colm warned us he’d be coming,” Leah adds.

“He talked to Colm too?”

“He was the first. Since Colm never changed his name this Eeling threatened him with revealing our identities instead,” Dustin says.

“So Eeling already knew where to find you,” Hattie says, making a mental note to call her son’s other closest friend in the morning. It’s been more than six months since she spoke with Colm Tyring, the last time being over lunch in Boston, which is a halfway point between her home in Maine and his in New York State, where he is a professor of astronomy at a university.

“So he’s blackmailing you too,” Leah says quietly.

“Yes,” Hattie says, suddenly feeling very tired. This has been the longest day in recent memory. “He said this book he’s writing is different from all the others.”

“We asked to see it and he promised he’d show us on the last interview,” Dustin says. “But then he just never showed up.”

“Ghosted us,” Leah says flatly.

“Fucking criminal,” Dustin swears, and there’s a rustle of clothing.

“Where are you going?” Leah asks.

“Out for a drive,” Dustin says, his voice fainter. “Sorry about all this, Hattie.”

“It’s okay. We’ll get through.”

A door opens and closes on their end, then Leah comes back, clearer than before. “He’s been really upset ever since that guy showed up. He hates being forced into anything, but he hates talking about the past even more.”

A memory of Dustin on the witness stand rises in her mind. I was going to take him home, but Tommy insisted on going to Cheryl’s house. So I brought him there and he went inside. He’d rushed through the testimony and kept his eyes lowered the whole time, never once looking at his friend of twelve years seated behind the defense table. Hattie had pitied him then and still does. Amid all of Dustin’s confidence and bluster there had always been a note of insecurity at his core that he couldn’t hide with money or a cocky smile or his easy good looks. It probably has a lot to do with losing his older sister Alicia to suicide. But he also never stopped trying to measure himself against Tommy.

“He’s terrified of him,” Leah says as if reading Hattie’s thoughts. “He doesn’t talk about it but he’s so afraid Tommy will find us. Sometimes I wake up at night and he’s not in bed and I find him sitting in the living room in the dark, just looking out the window.” Hattie doesn’t know what to say to that, so she stays quiet. She’s spent plenty of her own sleepless nights staring into the dark. Feeling the dark stare back. “Sometimes he leaves without telling me. Just drives for hours alone.” Leah pauses. “You . . . you haven’t heard anything new, have you? I mean after New Mexico?”

The last purported sighting of Tommy had been in a small town west of Albuquerque a little over a year ago. A man had been working day labor on a construction crew and one of the project managers had thought he bore a striking resemblance to the Bedfellow Killer even with long stringy hair and an unkempt beard. But by the time police arrived to look into the report, the man had slipped away from the crew and was gone.

Hattie hesitates. “No. Nothing since.”

“I don’t think they’ll ever catch him. If he could hide from us, he can hide from anyone.” Hattie opens her mouth to reply, then closes it. “Can I tell you something?” Leah says after a moment.

“Of course.”

“I’m not sure I’m really afraid of Tommy. Not like Dustin is. Maybe not like I should be. My mom has told me over and over if he ever finds us . . . but I don’t know. Is that strange?”

She considers this. “Not strange, no.”

“Do you think he’d hurt us if he found us? For testifying against him and for . . . you know.”

For giving up his child.

“I don’t know. There’s a lot I don’t know about him anymore. There’re times when I’m not sure I ever knew him at all.”

A solemn reverence falls between them like the silence at a wake. “It’s not just Tommy Dustin doesn’t like to think about. It’s him too,” Leah says after a moment.

Julian.

She understands why Dustin doesn’t want to focus on the child his fiancée had with his former best friend, but still feels some bitterness at the fact. People are a sum of their parts, and Julian is Leah’s flesh and blood. You don’t get to choose which parts you love.

“What did you say?” Leah asks.

“Nothing,” Hattie replies, slightly alarmed she spoke aloud.

“I’m sorry Eeling found you,” Leah says. “I told him I didn’t know where you went, and that’s true—I never knew for sure, but he kept pushing and threatening us, so I told him the only place I could think you’d be. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, honey. It’s not your fault. You didn’t ask for any of this.”

There’s a soft sniffle from her end. “So you live there in Havensport, then.” Hattie isn’t sure if she’s keeping her voice down in case Dustin has returned or because they’re closing in on painful territory.

“Near there, yes.”

Hattie watches the second hand on the little clock that hangs on the bedroom wall travel almost all the way around before Leah goes on. “And you . . . you see him sometimes?”

There’s such heartsplit longing in her voice Hattie’s throat constricts. “I see him a lot.”

“And he’s—”

“He’s beautiful, Leah.”

The woman she once was sure would become her daughter-in-law starts to cry in earnest. Hattie wishes she were there in person to hold and comfort her the best she could. She wishes so many things, but wishing isn’t doing.

When Leah quiets somewhat Hattie says, “Don’t be sorry about anything. You’ve done the best you could and I’m proud of you. Very proud.”

“R-really?”

“Yes, honey. And the whole business with this writer is going to be over soon. Everything will be all right.”

“You think so?”

Hattie turns her eyes to the solid dark beyond her bedroom window and for the second time considers telling her the truth.

“Yes,” she says at last. “I really do.”

19

For a time after she ends the call with Leah she’s awash between the present and past.

It’s Eeling’s doing, dredging up things long since buried, but they would have eventually risen on their own without him. She would have come around to recalling everything in time because that was the way of memory and people are—

“Creatures of habit,” she says, not meaning to speak and startling at the sound of her own voice in the closeness of the den. A knot in the fire pops as if in response, and she jerks a second time.

It’s both very good and upsetting to have spoken to Leah and Dustin. She’s tried keeping in touch with them over the years, but recently it’s been easier and easier to forgo a phone call or meet them somewhere neutral to catch up. She supposes it’s that she’s becoming more rooted in her second life while leaving the first farther behind.

And it’s also because it hurts to know the two of them are together.

In a kind world it would be Tommy and Leah she’d be calling. And though Wendy and Kevin are wonderful, she wouldn’t know them at all because Julian would be with his birth parents and Ed would be alive and they’d be basking in the glow of grandparenthood together as they should be.

Except that will never be. The world is many things, but kind is not one of them.

The irony isn’t lost on her that Dustin finally got his wish and ended up with Leah, though she (and she’s sure Dustin himself) would’ve never guessed it would happen this way. It had been no secret as the four kids grew up together that Dustin loved Leah and Leah loved Tommy while Colm had loved them all. It had taken their son several years to come around to realizing Leah’s affections—What the hell’s wrong with him he can’t see it? Ed had said once, but in the end he did. She’s sure Dustin had always felt there was a competition between him and Tommy for Leah, but in reality, that had only been in his head. Hattie had seen how the girl looked at Tommy when they were only fourteen and known it was all but over.

But after Tommy’s conviction and escape, Dustin and Leah had naturally gravitated to one another, choosing to move to the same state and city and assume new identities together. And when they’d announced their engagement to her late last year, she was only surprised it had taken this long.

Besides churning up emotions, one other thing has been accomplished by calling them—now she knows for sure she can’t trust Eeling to keep his word. Not that she really did in the first place, but confirming the fact solidifies the plan she’s begun assembling in the workshop of her mind.

Hattie rises, finally hungry enough to eat something, and opens the fridge only to be met with the bottles of Worthington’s clotted cream. “Shit.” She completely spaced bringing Sloan his groceries.

With a sigh she gathers everything up and heads for the door. “Longest day ever. Might as well make it longer,” she says under her breath and goes out into the night.

20

The drive to Sloan’s only takes a few minutes on the road following the cove’s curve.

His driveway is an S shape ending at the house, which is a messy conglomeration of additions and afterthoughts to the original squarish structure at its center. Though hidden from the road, its seaside is fully exposed atop the sloping hill above the water. The place really should look ugly, but its charm lies within its disorder. Much like its owner.

Hattie brings the groceries in, not bothering to knock. “It’s just me,” she calls into the depths of the house. There’s no response but there usually never is. She moves through the foyer containing a cluttered desk beside a set of twisting stairs turning tightly out of sight to the second floor. The kitchen/dining room follows, and a wave of heat washes over her. The old wood cookstove is lit and crackling merrily away. The banquet table running down the center of the space is mostly clear today—Sloan must be cycling into the next area of interest that has caught his fancy this month.

“Sloan?” she says, beginning to unload the groceries. “Did you eat yet?”

“Of course, it’s almost eight!” comes the shout from the library. It’s the most response she’ll get until she’s in sight of him where he can concentrate on her. She moves about the kitchen as if it’s her own, putting items in their places without having to think. He’s eaten a decent amount since the last time she refilled his stores. She supposes a healthy appetite is a good sign at his age. She slices some sourdough and toasts several pieces, not whatsoever in the mood for their weekly snack but running on autopilot now, before slathering first a thick layer of the clotted cream on the toast, then a dollop of strawberry jam on top. Coffee is already made in the carafe (Sloan keeps a pot going all day), and she pours them each a cup, then loads everything on a tray to carry down the nearest hallway.

The library is a hexagonal sunroom off the back of the house lined with low bookshelves as to not spoil the view. And it is quite the view, especially in daylight hours. At the moment the cove is a black mirror and her place is visible only as a glimmer of lights directly across the water. The sunroom’s only other adornments besides the overflowing bookshelves are a small coffee table and two expensive leather lounge chairs with matching ottomans.

Sloan Ballard sits in the farther of the two chairs.

He’s a slight man with a lot of feathery white hair floating in all directions that always reminds Hattie of goose down. He’s dressed in his usual attire—a pair of well-worn khaki chinos and a button-up shirt. The eyes behind his black-rimmed glasses are a clear blue, flicking quickly across the pages of the current book he holds. A puckered scar creeps from the throat of his shirt on one side of his neck—a shrapnel wound from his time in Vietnam, which he has spoken very little of, though she’s seen the large black service pistol he kept after being discharged in the foyer table’s drawer. Killing and dying is awful work is as much as he’s said whenever the subject arises.

She sets the tray down on the coffee table, shoving a stack of books to one side to make room. This is what finally gets his full attention.

“Easy, easy. Those’re old,” Sloan says, sitting forward.

“You’re old,” Hattie says.

“You aren’t far behind, deary.” He sets down the book he’s reading, The Brothers Karamazov by Dostoevsky, and takes a whiff of the tray’s contents. “You’re a day late,” he says, selecting one of the pieces of toast.

“So very sorry to keep Your Highness waiting.” This earns her the dismissive flap of one hand as he starts to eat. Instead of sitting in her customary spot across from him, she takes a cup of coffee and walks to the far windows.

If it were light, she would be able to see the craggy strip of shore where Sloan very surely would have died if she hadn’t happened along. The place where they first became friends.

In this particular section of Maine, if your family didn’t go back several generations you weren’t considered local. And a transplant like her was so much worse. Especially since she’d bought out the former owner of the cottage when the place hadn’t really been for sale. This in particular had caught the interest of the cove’s oldest and most suspicious resident. Sloan Ballard’s kin could be traced back to some of the first settling families—his grandfather having built half the homes in the surrounding area. So when the codger began to make not-so-subtle inquiries around town into who the hell Hattie was and what the hell she was doing on the cove, she became nervous.

She’d watched day in and out from the den windows as Sloan, who at the time she’d only known by sight, ambled down the steep bank at the back of his house and picked his way along the rocky path to the bay’s edge before diving into the frigid waters. He would swim for a period she considered dangerous given his age and the water temp, then towel off and meander among the rocks for a bit before returning to his house on the hill. All the while she feared he would eventually stumble onto her identity despite the precautions she’d taken.

Everything had changed one day in early September.

She’d been out for a walk as the tide was beginning to come in, buoyed by the fact Wendy had asked for the first time if she could possibly babysit Julian for a date night the following week, when she’d heard a weak cry for help. She’d hurried around a large cluster of rocks, splashing through the rising surf, and there he was—her unmet nemesis, lying half in and half out of the water. Sloan’s face was a pale mask of pain and fear, his ankle an ugly, swollen mass from turning it on the uneven shore.

She’d called emergency services, then got him to his feet, half carrying him up the path to his back door and inside. By then he’d been hypothermic and unable to say anything more than a few broken instructions. His shivering had been so uncontrollable it had frightened her along with his slitted eyes that kept trying to close. Hattie had bundled him in blankets, boiled tea, and kept him talking as he hovered near unconsciousness until the paramedics arrived.

Afterward, when she’d learned he would make a full recovery, she’d considered sending flowers but thought that would be pushing it a little too much. Instead she’d waited, her instincts paying off a week later when a letter arrived—a charmingly formal invitation for coffee at his home written in his elegant slanting script.

She supposes now it wasn’t truly on the beach where they became friends but here in the library where they’d had their first of many cups of coffee together. With her gradually revealing as much of her true self to him wrapped in the guise of Mary Whittaker while learning that the man who had been so full of distrustful questions was really a lonely, kindhearted bookworm with what she’s sure is undiagnosed ADHD.

Hattie moves around the room counterclockwise, stopping before a series of photos on the wall, the last two always giving her pause.

Sloan’s sons, Adam and Nicholas. Both handsome boys five years apart in age at the time. Now more than forty years apart in life.

Nicky drowned, Sloan had told her the first day she’d visited after noticing the pictures. He and Adam were swimming in the bay there like they’d done a hundred times. A thousand. We think Nicky got a cramp. Adam dove and dove but couldn’t find him. It was a long time ago. The frankness with which he’d spoken had at first taken her aback, but then she’d recognized it for what it was—survival. Facing what happened so you could continue on, the paradox of being wounded to heal. It was an insight she’d gained in therapy that had lasted—you couldn’t keep shutting out the pain, you had to let it in. If you were to survive, you had to let it hurt.

My son died too, she’d said before she could stop herself. Before she really knew what she was doing. Suicide. It was as close to the truth as she could come, because in some ways Tommy had killed himself. At least the version of him she had known. From that point on her and Sloan’s friendship had bound them together in the most awfully exclusive club of outliving their children.

Of course, it’s just one of the many lies she’s told since becoming Mary Whittaker. The truth is simply too horrible to say aloud.

“Your visitor hold you up?” Sloan says, breaking her reverie.

Hattie flinches internally. “What do you mean?”

“The boy.” Sloan motions toward the Crawfords’. “He stayed over the other night with you, didn’t he?”

She relaxes but can’t help but eye the powerful binoculars on the nearest bookcase Sloan keeps handy to peer through when the mood takes him. And from this glass lookout there’s not much he can’t see. “He did, but he went home yesterday morning. Afterward I ran to town and then fell asleep early in the chair. And today . . . just kind of slipped away.”

He grumbles half-heartedly, which is Sloan-speak for “all is forgiven.”

They settle into a mostly one-sided conversation, which rambles within Sloan’s characteristic lack of concentration. First, it’s the proposed road construction on Route 17 (a waste of money according to him), then it’s his neighbor’s latest groundskeeper and how Sloan is sure he’s a prowler. “Could’ve sworn I caught a glimpse of him moving across the yard the other night.” Then onto the weather and how winter isn’t far away.

Hattie participates as much as she can, but her thoughts are miles away and she’s afraid that when she opens her mouth some vital secret will come spilling out. It feels almost inevitable.

“So glad you were able to get Worthington’s again,” Sloan finally says, reclining in his chair, his feet resting comfortably on the ottoman. “Couldn’t stand that Mottles stuff.”

Hattie gives him a faint smile. Worthington’s Creamery has been out of business for nearly a year. She hasn’t had the heart to tell him since it’s one of the few pleasures he has left. Instead she’s continued the charade by transferring the Mottles cream into the old Worthington’s bottles. The fact that Sloan is enjoying the very clotted cream he denounced as deeply inferior no longer provides her the amusement it once did. And it isn’t another what-he-doesn’t-know-won’t-hurt-him scenario. It’s an extension of what she’s become. Another reminder the woman Sloan knows and has come to trust is a false exterior.

“You still look tired,” he says now as she’s gathering the tray up.

“Silver-tongued devil.”

He makes the swatting motion again. “We’re too old to waste time being polite. Have you been sleeping?”

“Some.” It’s mostly true. Though her sleep has become moth-bitten with bouts of waking in the dark, a clutching fear there and gone before she can name it.

“Adam left some sleeping pills here last time he visited. He’s never slept well, not since Nicky. You want you can take them with you.”

“No, I’ve got my own if I need them.”

He eyes her in the penetrating way he has when he’s fully focused on something. That look has consumed countless words in innumerable books, and from what she’s gathered from his days as a history professor, silenced many a chattering student in their seats. “Just because you’re a bit younger doesn’t mean you have to do all the helping around here.”

“A bit younger,” she says, rolling her eyes. He continues on as if he hasn’t heard her.

“I can hire someone to bring the groceries. I don’t want you waiting on me at the expense of yourself. You look like you’ve lost weight.”

“I’ve been running more, that’s all. Don’t worry, I’m fine,” she adds, carrying the tray to the kitchen. She’s glad she’s in the next room since there are sudden tears standing in her eyes.

When she finally returns to the library Sloan is fully reclined in his chair and has his hands folded over his stomach in repose. He’s so still Hattie wonders if he’s shuffled off his mortal coil in the time it took her to clean up the tray and tidy the kitchen before returning. But then his narrow chest rises and falls and he grumbles something unintelligible in his sleep.

The house creaks in the wind, its old bones settling. Sloan told her once that the place is haunted, that all these houses up and down the coast are. They’re too old and have seen too much not to be. All the life lived inside them leaves its mark and remains long after those who made it are gone.

Like all of us.

She’s about to go when the photos on the wall catch her eye again. She considers Nicholas’s picture as she has so many times before, noting how he looks a little like Tommy did at that age. Except Tommy was missing a front tooth then. Ed had helped him wiggle it free while she’d been running errands and Tommy had bounded up to her with it in the palm of his hand when she got home, his little face shining, so proud.

Her boy. Her son. Her only.

Hattie closes her eyes as if it will blot out the memory, knowing it won’t, and not wanting it to anyway. It’s one of the good ones.

How did you go on . . . after Nicholas? she’d asked Sloan a year or so into their friendship. They’d been sitting here in the library on a quiet rainy April afternoon watching a lobster boat bob in the distance.

He’d quieted then, those scrutinous eyes that were always dancing having stilled. After the initial shock passed I didn’t know if I could survive without him. A sad smile, there and gone. When I realized I would I wondered if I could ever forgive myself for not keeping my child safe. Eventually I did. Then I began to wonder if I lived long enough if I might find joy again. And I have, to some extent. Not the same kind of joy, of course, nothing could ever be the same. But a different shade always touched with his memory.

Julian is her shade of joy. And for her he is touched by Tommy’s memory. That and her own guilt that stains the fabric of most days. She can only hope Julian is free from the darkness that consumed her son. For now, hope is all she has.

She’s almost to the door, fighting off another sudden bout of tears, when Sloan speaks in his sleep.

“Storm.”

Hattie freezes and pivots back toward him. Waiting. Not fully sure she heard what he said. Not even sure he’s asleep anymore. She takes two steps closer and stops. The lines in Sloan’s face deepen as he grimaces, and yes, he’s still asleep. Maybe it wasn’t a word after all, just more of his mumblesleep she’s heard the few times he’s taken a nap near the end of their visi—

“Storm coming,” he says clearly, and her skin breaks out in goose bumps.

Hattie holds her breath, waiting for more. But Sloan shifts in the chair, his face turning away from her, and there is only the sound of his breathing and the wind rushing down from the north.

21

The Toyota’s headlights catch fallen leaves somersaulting across the road and throw their shadows starkly behind them as she drives home.

An image of a tug-of-war comes to her. She’s not one team or the other, but the rope itself. Stretched thin. Taut to the breaking point. And there is also the sickening and undeniable feeling that’s been building for months now, the one she’s been trying to ignore.

Storm coming.

She manages not to shiver and slows for her driveway. She doesn’t believe in portents or prophecies. Has lived too many horrors of reality to give credence to anything beyond it. An old man muttering in his sleep about the weather is coincidence at best. But down in the lightless depths of her unconscious, she’s been expecting a Ross Eeling or something worse to come bubbling up from her past. Has felt the terrible looming sense of . . . inevitability.

The heart always comes home.

She does shudder this time, can’t help it. Not in the dark quiet of the car as it rolls up the driveway and the cottage and the shed come into view—both as dull and lightless as the eyes of a dead man. She pulls to a stop and sits in the idling Toyota, the heater’s efforts not doing anything to warm her. The chill is internal.

Hattie climbs out to open the shed doors, still lost in thought, and realizes she’s no longer alone.

She’s being watched, can feel eyes on her like the pressure of cold fingers. She slows, then stops, searching the dark outside of the fan of light from the vehicle. Nothing. No one. The yard is empty and she’s alone.

Wait. There.

On the lowest branch of the tree in the corner of the yard sits the owl.

It’s only a deeper shadow against the blue-black of the sea beyond, but it’s there. And it’s watching her again. She can feel the knowing press of its gaze. The accusation within it.

Hattie finds herself taking a sudden step in its direction and waving her arms. “Go on! Get out of here!” Her voice only carries so far in the rush of wind bending the trees and making their branches nod in grim agreement. When the owl doesn’t move, she takes another tentative step forward. “What do you want? What the fuck do you want?” she says, knowing how unhinged she sounds coupled with the fact she’s talking to a bird. But more than anything she wants it to fly away and prove that it’s actually there. That it’s real.

Another step, and this is as close as she can go, her body won’t let her move any farther. She stares at the silhouette where its head and eyes are, swallowing an acrid taste in the back of her throat. The wind howls and dead leaves whisper in the dark around her.

In a smooth movement the owl leans off the branch, its great wings flaring, and drops out of sight toward the bay.

She stands in the middle of the lawn breathing hard, extremities tingling as if they’ve fallen asleep and are reawakening and she yearns to reawaken as well. For it all to be a dream. All of it.

22

When she gets inside she considers going straight to bed and finally putting an end to this endless day, but she’s still too caffeinated, not to mention shaky from her encounter with the owl. She settles for the den and feeds the stove. Watches the flames dance. A gust of wind spatters the windows with rain and she muses she can hear the waves against the shoreline.

There’d been a moment on the way home where she’d almost kept the wheel straight and driven past the cottage. That version of her is still driving, heading into a dark unknown to begin again. Starting her third life.

She could leave a note. Notes. One for the Crawfords and one for Sloan. She could be fully truthful or vague. Leave something standing or burn it all down. But neither feels right. She can’t think straight, can’t decide what to do. She always seemed to know before. But now—

Now she doesn’t know anything for sure.

She takes a few calming breaths, grounding herself. The doors are locked and she’s safe and so is Julian along with his family. She’s really tired and it’s okay if she closes her eyes for a second or two just to rest them, just to rest her head—

—her head is against Ed’s chest, right where she’s always rested it after making love for all of the twenty-five years they’ve been together. Tucked up close to him is the safest place she’s ever found in the world, and she wouldn’t move for all the money in it right now. The bedroom is dark with only a shaft of moonlight cutting in through the big western window. The light is gorgeous but also off somehow. She feels the same. The languid after-sex of her body and the solidness of her husband beside her are tainted with unease. Like a drop of black ichor in clear water.

Something’s wrong.

The words aren’t just in her head, Ed spoke them. But that’s not really what’s bothering her either. It’s the stillness and the quiet. The stillness of his chest and the quiet inside it. Oh honey, she says, feeling tears flood her eyes, because this isn’t real and it’s real all at once.

Don’t trust him, Ed says, and now he is cold. Colder than any December nightwind, and she wants to untangle herself from him because he is dead and gone and there’s a terrible trilling sound coming from inside him where his heartbeat should be, but she can’t move. Can’t get herself to slip free of his stiff arms or the dream she knows this must be and the trilling is clearer. It’s a ringing, ringing inside him, something is ringing inside him, ringing—

—the ringing wakes her and Hattie bolts upright from the chair so violently that pain streaks down her neck like a lightning strike. For a half second she has no notion of where she is, only that it’s dark and a sinister red glow coats everything like a sunset in hell. Then she’s gathering her bearings and recalling drifting away in the chair and the nasty red light is coming from the stove where the fire’s burned down to bloodied embers. But that’s not what woke her.

What woke her is the phone.

Her old iPhone is ringing in the bedroom.

Hattie looks at her wristwatch. Two a.m.

As if still in a dream, she leaves the den and moves carefully through the darkened kitchen and to the hall, reality gradually reasserting itself. How many times has the phone rung? She hasn’t counted but knows there aren’t too many left before the voicemail picks up. She moves faster, the old floorboards creaking her passage until she’s at her bedroom doorway.

For a terrifying beat she’s sure someone will be sitting there on her bed, waiting, and that the ringing is just a trap to lure her closer. But the room is empty and there’s a spear of light coming from the bedside drawer she left slightly open. It reminds her of the moonlight in her dream as she pulls the phone out, noting the number floating on the screen before answering.

Dead air meets her like always. But there is a presence on the line. Listening. Waiting.

Hattie sinks slowly to the bed, reaching out with one hand to brace herself while the other presses the phone tightly to her ear. She takes a deep breath in, steadying herself.

“Hello, Tommy,” she says.

Part 3

Beginning’s End

September 2018

Hattie picked up the phone’s handset from its cradle and put it to her ear, fighting back tears and the roiling in her midsection. She watched Tommy through the thick plexiglass partition, waiting for him to pick up his own handset so they could talk.

She still hadn’t recovered from the sight of him upon entering the empty visitation area even though she’d been prepared by the senior cell block officer as he escorted her there. Nothing could prepare you for seeing the face of your child beaten almost beyond recognition. There was an incident, the block guard had told her when she arrived. It happened yesterday shortly after mealtime and since you were scheduled for visitation this morning the warden thought it better to inform you in person. Tommy has been cleared by medical. No concussion or broken bones. Superficial bruising and cuts for the most part.

Superficial. She wondered if the block officer or the warden would call them superficial if they’d been on the receiving end of the beating.

Tommy’s face was a quilt of bruises stitched with lacerations. His eyes were swollen nearly shut, their lids a shiny bluish black like the skin of a rotting eggplant. Hattie was grateful she hadn’t eaten that morning. If she had she was sure she would’ve been sick now. Since Tommy’s arrest food had become something she considered rarely with a vague sense of revulsion and keeping it down when she managed to eat was by will alone. The sunny spring day Leah had called her in her classroom she’d weighed just over a hundred and forty pounds. At the last doctor’s appointment Ed had insisted on she’d tipped the scale at a hundred and three.

Hattie forced herself to study her son through the partition and the more she did the more damage she noticed. Beside a patch of ruddy abrasions on his cheek, his nose canted to the left, though the officer had also assured her it wasn’t broken. There was an altercation between Tommy and two other inmates. We’re still not sure who instigated it. As if her son would’ve picked a fight with not one but two other prisoners.

Though as Tommy finally reached out to pick up the phone on his side of the glass, Hattie felt the weight of the last four nightmarish months and was reminded she could no longer swear to know anything for sure about him.

They sat for a time listening to each other breathe before Hattie finally said, “Are you okay?”

Tommy licked his swollen lips. “Doing great.”

“What happened?”

He shook his head as if he weren’t going to say but she waited him out. “It’s no secret why I’m here,” Tommy said. “Word got around to the wrong guys.”

“I’m going to have Billy request you be moved into a different—”

He quieted her with another faint shake of his head. “Doesn’t matter.”

“What do you mean it doesn’t matter? Of course it matters.” But Tommy merely stared at her. Through her. And in his haunted gaze she saw, or more accurately didn’t see, something that terrified her. The light she had attributed to hope throughout the ordeal was gone from his eyes.

The trial had been an agonizing downhill rush of weeks amid bouts of stagnant waiting that seemed to last eons. Meanwhile a media blitz surrounded the entire process like some kind of circus performance that had only grown to a fever pitch with the trial nearing its end. The prosecution and defense would be making their final arguments in the coming weeks, though she wasn’t sure if there was anything Billy Wescot could say to the stone-faced jury that would make a difference. The DA’s case had been devastatingly flawless, the evidence damning. The last few meetings she and Ed had with Billy felt like terms of surrender.

And surrender was what she saw now in the battered features of her only child.

“Listen to me,” she said in a low voice. “Nothing is over yet. And even if the worst happens there are appeals we can file. Billy said—”

“It. Doesn’t. Matter,” Tommy said, speaking slowly and so low she could barely hear him. “It wouldn’t matter if they let me out tomorrow. No one believes me.”

Hattie started to deny the allegation. Because that’s what it was. An indictment of her as a mother. But they had finally reached the real divide widening between them—the unspoken void filled with doubt, because what was doubt but emptiness? With each subsequent visit, in each endless day of court, the divide grew and the illusion that she still believed him and that he believed she believed him wavered and grew thin. In the beginning she couldn’t get herself to consider Tommy had done the horrific things he’d been accused of, couldn’t fathom that a part of her was capable of that kind of evil.

Now she was having trouble thinking of anything else.

It had been a slow creeping over the months, like a cancer in the blood. At first Tommy’s insistence on his innocence had been frantic and charged with fear, but then he had begun to change. The more time he’d spent locked away (the judge presiding over his case hadn’t ever granted their bail request), the quieter he’d become. The more distant. With each reveal of evidence by the prosecution, the farther away he seemed to drift until he no longer looked like the person she had raised and loved with every fiber of her heart.

And Hattie couldn’t tell if it was because she was losing sight of who he was, or finally seeing him for the first time.

A quiet click brought her back and she realized she’d been lost in her thoughts for too long. Her hesitation all the answer he needed. Tommy had hung up and was rising from his seat and she called to him then, called for him to come back, even if she didn’t believe him, even if she had to live knowing he had killed four people and would never see the sky again except from the exercise yard of some bleak-walled institution, even if he was a monster—she would somehow come to terms with that if he would just come back.

But he left her sitting where she was, holding the dead handset to her ear, hearing nothing but the beat of her own blood.

23

Hattie waits as she always does for a reply, but it doesn’t come.

There is only silence on his end, broken by the occasional soft inhalation that could be her imagination. But she knows it isn’t. She’s not alone on the line. Tommy is there.

“Sorry it took me a minute to get to the phone, I was sleeping in the—” She almost says “den” but catches herself.

Over the years of these wholly one-sided conversations, she’s trained herself not to reveal anything about her home or location. Not even the slightest detail that could pinpoint where she is. The sea itself is the biggest giveaway, but there is a lot of shoreline in the world and the cove is mostly quiet tonight as if conspiring to keep her safe.

“—I was sleeping,” she finishes, clearing her throat. She’s no longer afraid when the phone rings and a particular number appears on the screen of her old iPhone, usually very late at night. Not afraid, no, but always nervy. Always worried she’ll make a misstep somehow, as if answering the calls in the first place isn’t the real mistake, but still unable to stop herself in any case. “But that’s okay. I’m here.”

She rises from the bed and goes to the window. There are no lights on in the room to create a reflection so she can see out into the night. It’s no longer raining but the wind has risen even more. The trees sway like shadowed dancers. “It’s been a while since you called.” She waits again, always giving him an opening to reply. He never does. “I’m fine,” she says as if he asked. “Been keeping busy; planting flowers, running, cooking—the usual.”

She touches the window hasp, double-checking it’s locked. “I was thinking the other day about when Colm moved to town. You came home and told me there was a new kid in class. A quiet boy with scars on his arms who never looked anyone in the eye. You said it must be scary moving to a new place where you didn’t know anyone and that you were going to ask him if he wanted to hang out with you and Dustin and Leah. And it wasn’t more than a day or two and the four of you were riding around together on your bikes, inseparable. Glued at the hips, your dad always said.” She laughs quietly but quickly sobers. “I was so proud of you for being Colm’s friend when he needed one. You chose to be kind.” She takes a breath. “I don’t want you to forget your kindness. I don’t want you to forget who you are.”

Sprawling silence.

As always she strains to hear something from his end. Anything. Not only to sustain the strange, long-distance connection between them, but also to see if she can identify a sound that might give her a hint to where he is. But there is always nothing.

Except for once.

It was a night last January in the dead heart of winter. Tommy had called while a storm was battering the cove—the wind moaning around the house’s corners, peppering the siding and windows with ice and snow. She had spoken louder and a little faster to drown out the weather in case he decided to look at a radar map and make note of all the storms in the northern hemisphere. Near the end of their short call (he never stayed on the line more than a few minutes) there had been a sound from his end.

It was a slamming echo as if several heavy-duty electric motors or engines had started up all at once in a vast empty space followed by a harsh grinding. An industrial noise for certain but maddening in its anonymity. Its suddenness was so startling she’d jerked the phone away from her ear before pressing it close again, eager to hear more. But by then the connection was broken and he was gone.

Now she wills it to come again. The sound was so distinctive if not familiar, she’s sure she could identify it if she heard it just once more.

Instead, the silence has changed.

Tommy is gone again.

24

Hattie watches the sun rise from the ocean.

She sits on one of the big rocks wrapped in her thickest blanket, marking the gradient light in the east until the sun flares from the water, warming her face.

It’s like this every time there’s a call. She pretends she’ll be able to sleep afterward, even going through the pretense of readying for bed and lying down and closing her eyes, then waiting for sleep to come. But it never does. Her mind hamsterwheels with “what-ifs” and detailed rewrites of the past until she climbs back out of bed to at least be upright with her thoughts.

So after the call ended she sat for a time before the fire with a cup of tea, then went out with her blanket to wait for dawn as it neared. The wind had died down by then and the threat of rain lingered but held off long enough for the sun to rise. Long enough for her to think.

When the late-night calls began she hadn’t known what they were. Or moreover who they were. They’d started a little over six months after she’d moved to the cove—hangups at first by a number she didn’t recognize, her old phone only ringing a time or two before disconnecting, the calls themselves months apart. She’d thought they were telemarketers or scammers or wrong numbers and dismissed them. It wasn’t until she actually began answering them and hearing the open line and the infrequent quiet breath that she started to wonder. She knew for sure it was Tommy calling after the death of Paige McMahon and the subsequent text a week later.

Help me stop.

Hattie shivers and draws the blanket tighter around her. It’s cold enough to see her breath but she sits a moment longer, letting the past seep in.

Paige McMahon was Tommy’s only known victim since his escape eight years prior. She’d worked at a small community college in Ohio in a clerical position—a pretty brunette, only twenty-seven years old, who loved nature walks, playing the piano, and The Great British Baking Show. She’d been killed in her sleep, the base of her skull pierced by a thin, pointed object. All MO surrounding the crime was Bedfellow through and through. Hattie had been alerted to the murder by the keywords she’d set in her Google account in the event there was a sighting of Tommy, or in this case, another killing.

The days after learning of the murder were a black hole.

She’d shut herself in the cottage, avoiding the Crawfords and Sloan alike, knowing they would see ruin in her eyes she couldn’t explain. Many motionless hours were spent in the den staring at the sea, screeching thoughts climbing the walls of her mind. When the three-word text came through from the hangup number she’d walked down to the water’s edge and stood there on the brink of hurling the phone into the waves. She’d even cocked her arm back, then froze, knowing she held so much more in her hand than a simple device. She held the lives of her son’s future victims and possibly his as well.

In the end she’d reached out to Detective Ramsby, who at the time was still in charge of Tommy’s case.

She recalls the initial skepticism in the detective’s voice when she’d told him what was happening, but he’d agreed to look into the calls if she signed a release to access her phone account. He’d gotten back to her a week later saying the number was registered to a burner phone that had been purchased with cash at a roadside market in Delaware. No cameras in the place, Ramsby had said with a faint wheeze, and she wondered then if the cigarettes she’d smelled on him during their first meeting were taking their toll. No way to confirm it was Tommy who bought it. We did use cell towers to locate where the text originated from—it was near a hotel complex in North Carolina, coulda been from anywhere in a block radius. She’d asked if they were going to canvass the area, if they wanted her cell to continue the search, what they needed from her.

Listen, Mrs. Conlee, Ramsby had replied with such thick condescension she was surprised the phone line hadn’t become clogged with it. Whoever’s doing this is pulling the SIM out as soon as they’re done calling you. No way to trace it other than when it’s being used. And the calls are short, too, which would make it less likely to be able to locate the individual once they hang up. To be honest, I think you’ve got yourself a crank caller here. Some sicko who gets off on messing with someone connected to a notorious case. It happens.

“Bullshit,” she whispers now, echoing her thought at the time. She’d taken a beat, making sure when she asked what the state police intended to do it came out as civil as possible.

Nothing to do, really. I mean, whoever this is hasn’t made any threats. And I know you’re still thinking it’s your son, but there’s nothing to prove it’s him. He’s never said anything, right? She’d answered this with her own spate of silence. Since there’s no way to confirm it’s Tommy, we don’t have much to go on. Like I said, probably some whack playing a prank. My advice, try to forget it. If anything changes, you let me know.

“Yeah, right,” she says, her breath pluming again. Whether Ramsby’s dismissal was justified or lazy or just good old-fashioned misogyny, she’ll never know.

What she does know is he was wrong.

Tommy’s never spoken aloud. She’s never heard his voice and he’s never confessed his location or intentions, so in that respect Ramsby’s correct. But she knows it’s her son calling nonetheless. How, she can’t say. But there is a familiarity in the quiet—something she recalls from the countless conversations they had while he was away at college. Tommy had made it a point to phone home at least once a week, usually talking briefly to Ed, then her—their chats sometimes stretching to an hour. She knows he and Ed loved each other, but it was her who Tommy really opened up to. Maybe it was because they were both only children—a certain singular nature imbuing itself on those who grew up without the balance, or imbalance, of siblings. Regardless she could always tell when something was bothering him or when he was about to reveal a change in his life. He would grow quiet, working himself up to telling her. And in that pause, she always waited patiently. She supposes she still is.

Hattie rises with a grunt, joints filled with rust from sitting on stone for so long. She moves back toward the cottage in the low gray morning, fallen leaves scratching at the blanket’s drifting hem. As she’s stepping inside it occurs to her there was one thing she’d withheld from Ramsby, though given his reaction she doubts it would have made any difference. It was in the weeks following the intuition of who it might actually be calling the number from her past life. She’d taken to carrying the phone around with her, and when it finally rang as she knew it would, instead of saying the usual Hello? Hello? she’d gathered herself and spoken a single word instead.

Tommy?

There had been a surprised inhale, then a click as the call ended.

It was all the confirmation she needed.

25

When the coffee’s brewed and she’s inhaled the better part of a cup, she feels somewhat human again. The sound of the Atlantic drains from her inner ear and the swirl in her mind recedes. Too long looking at the sea can do that. The churn of the waves gets inside her head, mesmerizes and moves time like a tide. Back and forth.

She checks the driveway to make sure Eeling hasn’t arrived yet (may he still drive off the road into a tree) and decides she has time for a final phone call. There’s one person she hasn’t spoken to yet that will close the circle of the meddlesome writer and his demands.

The old iPhone is back in the drawer where she left it, and when she draws it out the familiar guilt returns, whispering its stiletto truths. She’d told herself the only reason she kept the phone was to stay in contact with the people from her past life—the one thread left between them other than the rare meeting in person. And she’s allowed that, isn’t she? She’s lost so much, to lose the rest would be—

But that’s not really true. Or not fully true. The cell is the equivalent of a porch light left on after dark, the only remaining beacon for Tommy to reach out to her. And as many times as she’s considered dousing it, she’s held back by another greater responsibility.

It’s the belief that the only thing keeping Tommy from succumbing to the darkness inside him are the calls and her voice.

No. It’s not belief. It’s truth. Paige McMahon’s murder was five years ago. There hasn’t been another killing since. The calls come irregularly—some within weeks of each other and sometimes many months apart, and Hattie feels (knows) these are the times he’s fighting not to do it. He calls her then, and she does her best to remind him he’s not just a salacious news headline or a sleazy limited series on TV or even the urges that have snuffed out five lives now.

He is still her son, and there is still good in him.

As she finds the contact she’s looking for she reasserts the pledge that has entrenched itself in the shadowed valleys of her heart.

If the police can’t keep him from killing, she’ll do her best to.

The line rings and she double-checks the time. Colm will be on his way to work now. He’s told her before he has a bit of a commute and usually listens to audiobooks. He’s always loved to read and it’s one of the things they shared while he was a kid growing up part-time at her house—the exchanging of books and the magic of storytelling. In fact she’s surprised he didn’t become a writer himself, he seemed to have the imagination for—

“Hattie? You okay?” Colm Tyring says a little breathlessly as if he’s rushed to the phone.

“Yeah, Colm, I’m okay.”

A pause from his end. “D called and filled me in last night. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she says automatically, even though it’s not. But Colm is one of the last people she wants to feel responsible for this. Out of all four kids he’s always been the most fragile. The most reserved. He appeared one day in their small town, an aunt begrudgingly taking him in after his mother passed away from a rumored drug overdose. Hattie never broached the topic of the scars on his forearms and hands that looked suspiciously like cigarette burns, only ever tried making him feel comfortable and welcome in their home after Tommy befriended him. And it seemed to work as he spent as many nights and weekends staying over as possible. The aunt never appeared to mind either—the most Hattie ever saw of the woman was a hand briefly waving from the car window when dropping him off. Colm became Tommy’s shadow, always there, usually toting a book or astronomy magazine, happiest when sitting on their back deck peering through a cheap telescope at the night sky. It feels like I’m floating away, he’d told her one night gazing at the stunningly bright seam of galaxy overhead. Over the years he blossomed as well as any flower, and she’d felt her own bloom of pride at having a hand in the shy but deeply intelligent person he’d become. You weren’t supposed to have a favorite child but that didn’t apply to their friends, and Colm is hers.

She pictures him now, not nearly as handsome as Dustin but infinitely more thoughtful. Not as outgoing as Tommy but possessing a wryer wit. “Where are you? It doesn’t sound like you’re on your way to work.”

“No, I stayed over at the school. There was a midnight class observing the Orionids meteor shower. Extra credit.”

She sees him as a boy again, eye pressed to the lens of a telescope, and thinks maybe things change but people not so much. “How was it?”

“The meteors? Stunning.”

Stunning. Exactly the kind of word she expects from him. So very Colm. “D and Leah said this guy came to you first.”

Colm sighs. “To be honest, I didn’t think much of it to begin with. There’ve been others who’ve come asking around, wanting an interview, snapping photos sometimes. But that’s mostly tailed off now without Tommy in the news much anymore.”

“Except Eeling was different.”

“That he was. Came bearing threats. If I didn’t tell him what he wanted he was going to reveal D’s and Leah’s identities, ruin everything they’d built. And I . . . I just wouldn’t do that to them. But that led to this, didn’t it? He found out from them where you are somehow, didn’t he.”

It isn’t really a question, and she doesn’t answer it. “Did he tell you about this book he’s writing?”

“No. He promised he would, but he didn’t.”

At least the bastard’s consistent. “What did he ask you?”

“The usuals. What Tommy was like growing up, did I notice any strange behaviors from him, did he torture animals, that type of thing. But he mostly wanted to know how I felt when I found out about . . . well, you know. He was very interested in the effect it had on me and my life.”

Eeling’s words float back to her then. My book isn’t really about the crimes, it’s about the people connected to them. And then the kicker—Maybe you’ll even thank me. For some reason this time the incredulous stab of anger doesn’t come. In its place is something else. Something bordering on curiosity.

A murmur from Colm’s end brings her back. “Sorry, kiddo, I missed that.”

“I said he asked me if I could believe Tommy had done it.”

Hattie shoots a glance out the front windows, fully expecting Eeling to be standing there looking back at her. But she’s still alone. “You mean how surprised you were when it all came out?”

“I don’t know. I think maybe . . . never mind.” She’s about to press him to finish his thought when he says, “One of the last times I visited Tommy he said you told him you couldn’t forgive what he’d done, but you could accept it. What did you mean?”

She has almost forgotten she’d said this but hearing it now coming back to her through all the years is like being sucker punched. Her throat is suddenly very tight, but she forces herself to respond. She owes Colm that much because whether he knows it or not, she counts him as one of her own. “Children aren’t just your legacy; they’re your responsibility no matter how old they get. You made them. They’re yours, and to some extent, what they do is yours too. Good or bad.”

Neither of them says anything for a long moment, then Colm makes a sound that’s somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “You know, I think about him. A lot. I wonder where he is.” He hesitates. “I know it’s strange but . . .”

“But what?” she asks when he doesn’t go on.

“I miss him. Or I miss who he was to me. Maybe it was only part of him—the part he allowed us to see. But I don’t think it makes it any less real.”

Hattie exhales a shaky breath, on the verge of tears again. Always so close to tears these last few days. “I think it’s okay to miss things we love whether they’re real or not.”

“Maybe love makes them real. At least to us.”

“Maybe it does,” she says, blinking away the mist that’s formed in her eyes. “Maybe it does.”

26

Eeling arrives with the rain.

It’s not the drenching of the day before but intermittent spates that come and go with the wind. Hattie checks the time, noting he’s later than the prior visit. When he steps inside she can see why.

His eyes aren’t just bloodshot, they’re bloodshattered. And there’s a distinctive tang of alcohol hanging beneath whatever cologne he wears. In the harsh gray light, he looks like a man barely stitched together.

“Rough night?” she asks as they settle at the table. She can’t help giving the knife a little twist. Not after speaking to the kids and knowing the anguish he’s caused them.

“Rougher than some, better than others.” Eeling sets up his workstation without looking at her and she hopes the bottle of bourbon is stabbing the center of his head like—

a wood awl

—a hot poker. Hattie straightens and smooths the front of her shirt, glancing out the den windows.

The owl is there.

She looks away quickly, trying to pretend she didn’t see it, but she can feel its gaze on the side of her head like the touch of a fevered hand. Eeling clears his throat and finally looks up at her.

“You okay?”

“Fine,” she says. “Let’s get this over with.”

He studies her, then nods and taps at his laptop. “You hired a private detective after Tommy was indicted for the murders, correct?”

“How the hell—” But she stops. Does it really matter anymore how this man learned so much? No. It doesn’t. What matters is giving him enough of what he wants so he goes away. “Yes, we hired a PI.”

“And what was the result?”

She considers the emails and reams of papers collected over that seven-month stint in hell of the trial, which turned out to be only a prelude of what was to come. “Fuck all,” she says finally. “He came to the same conclusion the cops did.”

“The victims—”

“What about them?”

“I assume you remember their names?”

Hattie fixes him with a stare. “Yes, I remember them. If there’s such a thing as a soul, their names are carved into mine.” She looks down at her hands. “I reached out to all of their families. Told them how sorry I was. But there’s no apology for something like this.”

“Did any of them respond to you?”

“None. I didn’t expect any, and it’s not why I did it in the first place. If all you’re looking for is forgiveness, you don’t understand remorse.”

The hangover in Eeling’s eyes softens with sympathy, and she’s furious all over again. It’s the last thing she wants from him. “It must have been very difficult for you and your husband.” When she doesn’t reply he says, “Tell me.”

All at once she’s at the precipice of throwing him out of the cottage, consequences be damned, because they’re circling closer and closer to things she absolutely doesn’t want to think, much less talk about. Hattie opens her mouth half intending to tell him he can shove his questions and book up his ass but what comes out instead is, “Ed quit believing him much sooner than I did.” She turns away from Eeling but is careful not to look at the owl, either, focusing instead on a treetop swaying beyond the skylight. “He didn’t say it out loud, but I could see it. We’d both taken a leave from work and then it was summer and we were on break anyway. Ed started spending more and more time in his shop when we were home. I stayed mostly in the house researching Tommy’s case and cleaning things that didn’t need to be cleaned. We’d pair up to talk to our lawyer or meet with the worthless PI and to go to court when the time came, but eventually Ed quit doing those things too.” She recalls the drift between them and how utterly alone she’d felt even when he was right beside her. “They always say when something like this happens you find out who your friends are. But you find out who your partner is too. You find out who you are. What you’re capable of surviving.” And what you aren’t.

There’s another burst of rain against the windows that gradually fades. “Was there any one thing that changed your mind?”

She shakes her head very slowly. “It wasn’t one thing. It was all of them. It was the world slipping away. My world. I tried to hold on to it. I thought up every conceivable excuse to not accept what Tommy had done, and I mean every excuse. Most were borderline delusional. But they were all better than accepting the truth.” She takes a sip of coffee. It’s cold but it wets her mouth and throat. “I know now I was sick. Heartsick with denial. Ed got free of it first and I . . .”

“You what?”

She almost says I hated him for it. But she’s not going to give Eeling something that personal. That true. She won’t tell him how Ed left her behind on the dark side of hope. “I resented him. First because it felt like he was abandoning Tommy, and then because he’d faced reality before I could. Before I was ready.” Even revealing this leaves her feeling as exposed as if she were nude. The wind gusts and in her peripheral vision the owl resettles on its branch.

“Did you have much support, or were you and Ed mostly alone?”

She hates that he used Ed’s name but doesn’t comment. “There were kindnesses from friends and neighbors: food, cards, gifts. But it was all surface. Perfunctory. We weren’t serial killers; we just raised one. We were pitied but we were feared too.”

“Feared?”

“Of course.”

“Why?”

“Because we were a reminder it could be them instead.” She turns her coffee cup in slow circles on the tabletop. “Mostly it was the kids who were there for us. Leah and Dustin and Colm. They were . . . vital.” There’s no better word for the three of them. “Colm kept visiting Tommy even after he was found guilty. I always loved him for that. And Leah believed he was innocent the longest.”

“Because she was carrying his child.”

“That and he was her first love.” Something changes in his face at this. “Are you married?”

Eeling smiles tightly. “I’m not the one being interviewed.”

“I’ll assume that’s a yes since there’s an outline of a ring on your finger. You probably took it off before you came inside, is that right?” There’s a pang of satisfaction when he puts his hand beneath the table. “So maybe you understand the borders of love and maybe you don’t. If you don’t, count yourself lucky.”

The cottage creaks and the trees sway. More rain falls.

“What’s past them?” Eeling finally asks. “What’s past the borders?”

“Nothing.” Hattie swallows thickly and feels the owl’s gaze, harsh and pressing. “Just the truth.”

October 2018

The sound of the door opening brought her back from—

—from wherever the hell she went these days. Hattie sat up straighter in the chair by the window. She’d been staring outside without seeing any of the fall colors staining the nearest oak. Her watch said an hour had passed since she’d last checked. It was nearly one in the afternoon on a Tuesday, not that it meant anything to her. Not anymore. Time had become a fluid thing, slick and difficult to hold on to. Receding from it for longer and longer bouts had become a refuge.

Now Ed had returned from his.

A clink of glass and silverware came from the kitchen and she debated whether or not to actually do what she’d been preparing herself for over the last several days. But there’d been enough lying awake in their bedroom at night, feeling Ed shift restlessly every so often, both of them knowing the other wasn’t sleeping but neither of them saying a word in the dark.

But it was light now, about as bright as it was going to get on a cloudless fall day, and she was done waiting.

Ed was in the middle of making a sandwich when she stepped into the kitchen. “Hey.” He stilled almost imperceptibly but it was enough for her to notice. You noticed all kinds of things after being married long enough.

“Just grabbing lunch,” he said without turning toward her.

She hesitated, uncrossing, then recrossing her arms. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

Ed finished adding mayo to the bread and placed the knife in the dishwasher before facing her. “I already told you I don’t think I can go.”

The guilty verdicts had come like hammer blows two weeks before, not any less painful even though they were expected. Tommy’s sentencing hearing was the day after tomorrow. Billy had told them both to brace for the worst. “This isn’t about the sentencing. It’s about Leah.” She paused, then surged ahead. “It’s about our grandson.”

Ed’s chin rose. The subject of Tommy’s unborn child had been discussed once and only once—on the day Leah had told her. She hadn’t known how Ed would react, but she should have, especially with how accustomed she was becoming with this new version of her husband. He had absorbed the news like a terminal diagnosis and returned to his shop and she’d said no more. Until now.

“What about it?” he asked.

“Him. Not it. Him,” she said, bristling. Ed’s gaze drifted to the floor. “I want to make plans for when the time comes. I want us on the same page.”

“What are you talking about?” he asked, leaning against the sink. His back was to the window and unforgiving fall light streamed around him. He was darkened with it.

She let the silence stretch out. Heard it in every room of the house where they’d raised their son. The emptiness was overwhelming because it had taken up residence inside her. She’d been hollowed by the last seven months. But there was a flare of color, glimpsed like a vibrant garment hung among tired, graying sheets on a clothesline moving in the wind. There and gone. There again. “Leah’s made her decision. She’s going to give him up for adoption.” Some tension seemed to ease from him, and he nodded as if this was finally some good news. Hattie steadied herself. “I want to adopt him.”

The air thickened and curdled. She waited, not looking away.

“It’s not fair,” Ed finally said.

“None of this is.”

“No. I mean to him. To the child. He can’t grow up in the shadow of this.”

“He would have us.”

“Nothing would ever be normal for him. No matter how hard we tried.”

She’d been ready for this and took a step closer to him. “We could change our names. Move away. No one would find us.”

Ed made a sound she didn’t recognize at first as a laugh. “It doesn’t matter if we change our identities and leave the country, we can’t run from this because it is us. We made this. You want to raise him as someone else? What will you say when he asks who his parents are? When he starts searching for them on his own or when he doesn’t believe the lies anymore? Do you think he’ll thank you for it? For hiding the truth from him?” Ed’s raised voice came at her from all sides of the room. “You’re talking about hope.” He slammed a closed fist against his chest, and it was only then that she saw how close to tears he was. “And it’s been wrung out of me.”

She wanted to go to him then. Strike him and hold him all at once. “This isn’t about you. It’s about holding on to what’s left.” Something told her she should stop, some instinctual fear she couldn’t see the shape of. But instead of dampening the flames of her anger it only fanned them. “You spend all day in that shop making . . . fucking banister spindles and pretending this isn’t happening, but it is!”

He turned away, leaning heavily against the counter. “You think that’s what I’ve been doing? Pretending? I’ve been mourning. I’ve been saying goodbye to my son.” His voice broke on the last word and he started for the door.

“I’ll do it without you then,” she said, the words slipping free before she could stop them.

He hesitated, the door partially open. There was a breeze and she could hear the dry clicking of the leaves yet to fall. She was in awe at the cruel harshness of this moment that had been awaiting them all their lives. “You’re right, this isn’t about me,” Ed finally said so low she could barely hear him. “And it’s not about Tommy or Leah or the baby.” He brought his gaze up to hers. “I’m not the one pretending.”

Ed stepped outside and shut the door.

She went somewhere else again, reeling from the hurt and from doing the hurting.

Pain brought her back. It crept up from either side of her jaw and lanced into her skull, burrowing its way deeper. She unclenched her teeth and something in her center released as well. All at once she needed to sit and did so on the nearest chair. She placed her face in her hands and cried.

When the tears ran their course she went to the bathroom to blow her nose, at first avoiding the woman in the mirror, then facing her fully.

Husk.

She was reminded of the fallen leaves beneath the oak. Curled and dry. Nothing but their shape signifying they’d once been vibrant and alive.

She stroked some hair, which was threaded with considerably more gray than it had been six months ago, behind her ear. Hattie straightened and lifted her chin. She gave herself a last look, then snapped off the light.

So this was it. They’d reached the summit of the mountain between them. Stood looking at each other atop it. Now it was time to decide whether they were going to find a way to descend together, or if they would forsake one another to their own fates. For the rest of the afternoon she busied herself with mindless chores. Laundry (what little there was), the dishes (equally sparse), and vacuuming. The lull allowed her to retrace the contours of their fight, for the anger to become shame, which congealed to regret.

That’s my husband out there. The thought struck her so profoundly she actually paused mid-sweep with the vacuum. He was the one person on earth who understood what she was going through and she’d alienated the hell out of him. He was the one who shut me out, she thought, continuing to clean again. I needed him more than anything and he disappeared out to that fucking shop to wallow in his own misery.

And what had she been doing exactly?

She paused again, putting the vacuum back in its place near the pantry. The same, of course. Licking invisible wounds and holding on to hope that was slipping so quickly through her hands she could feel it burn.

It had somehow become evening—the horizon glowed a jack-o’-lantern orange, the trees dark scores against it, and it was so beautiful she couldn’t think of anything else. If there were still sunsets like this, why couldn’t they mend the wreckage between them? She recalled a day only weeks before Tommy’s arrest when she and Ed had taken a walk in the meadow behind their house. It was unseasonably warm, and she wasn’t sure if it had been the sweetness of growing things in the air or the way the light slanted through the budding trees, but they’d found themselves sprawled in a soft patch of new grass, nearly frantic with need for one another. If someone had happened along on the walking trail between their property and the neighbor’s they would’ve gotten an eyeful, and maybe that made it all the more exciting. When they’d finished Ed had laughed and commented they were acting like teenagers again. She’d thought there was nothing wrong with that. It might’ve been just about the most right thing in the world.

Had Tommy’s terrible actions erased their love? Could they survive this? Did she want them to?

In that spectacular fall light she felt a bone-deep ache for Ed. Knew he was feeling it too. They were lost in separate darknesses, but if they could reach out and find each other, then it would be better. Not okay, probably never really okay again, but better. She could live with better.

But she would have to reach out first.

Hattie grabbed two beers from the fridge and made her way outside. Miracle upon miracles the county road was empty, no sign of the press in either direction. She took it as a good sign along with the gliding sweep of an owl silently coasting out of sight behind Ed’s shop. She always felt a thrill at seeing one of the regal birds.

When she opened the shop door the whine of a table saw met her along with the smell of sawdust. Ed kept the space clean and many of his projects were neatly arranged along the walls of the long building. Birdhouses and railings and on some of the shelves whole sets of gorgeously finished salad bowls.

The first thing she would say was I’m sorry. Those two words apart didn’t mean much, but together they were magic. Then they could move forward together. She knew he was afraid of what it might mean to adopt Tommy and Leah’s child, but she would convince him. She would say the right thing and they would find a way. They would—

She stepped around the tallest shelf and stopped.

Ed lay on his side next to the whirring table saw, one arm curled tightly around his midsection, the other stretched out above his head as if he were reaching for something.

It’s not real. It’s a dream, she thought as both beers slipped from her hands. Then she was on her knees beside him, rolling him over, feeling the horrible stiffness of his body and seeing the slack pale of his face.

He’s already gone. Gone. Gone. Gonegonegone.

She had her phone with her and dialed 911, managing to say enough words to get the right people coming to help him, because they had to help him, had to save him because she couldn’t lose him too. Then she was trying to remember CPR, doing compressions, breathing into his cold mouth over and over—the mouth she had kissed maybe forty or fifty thousand times over the course of their twenty-five years together, until she finally collapsed to his side, leaning against him and feeling the difference in him.

Husk.

“No. No. No. No.” A woman was repeating herself in the distance, and Hattie wished she would be quiet. She wanted to go to sleep. She curled herself against Ed, laying her head on his still chest, and tried to close her eyes, but there was something outside the shop’s big windows looking in at her.

An owl.

It sat in the nearest tree, tall and gray and stately, with eyes like molten stones boring down unblinking into hers. She stared back, unable to look away. There was something almost accusing in its glare. As if it knew. Knew why Ed was out here alone. Why he was lying dead in his shop and had been for hours. Dead from a—

heartbreak

—heart attack that had been building for months from the stress and sorrow, one that she’d helped push over the edge with the fight she’d brought to him, with her goddamn insistence.

The owl saw.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”

The owl blended to darkness, and distant sirens rose like the howls of wolves.

27

Hattie sees her hands first.

They’re side by side on the table before her. She comes to notice them as if they belong to someone else. Then the rest of her body joins her. Not lying beside Ed on the cold hard concrete of his shop floor, but upright in the kitchen chair of the cottage. Not alone with her dead husband, but with the writer across the table watching her closely from behind the angle of his laptop.

But the owl is there. That is still the same.

“I should have said this sooner, but I’m very sorry. For everything you’ve gone through,” Eeling says.

Anger rises, then subsides. She’s too tired to be angry right now. “Thank you.” She stands and is surprised by the complaints in her joints, only to see it’s now early afternoon. Time has fluxed again. Reliving the past always robs you of now.

Hattie pours herself a fresh cup of coffee and starts to put the carafe back, then hesitates. “Would you like a cup?”

Eeling gives her a smile, and she hates to admit it’s a good one. “That would be lovely.” She sets a cup before him and resettles into her chair. “Did you tell Tommy yourself? About your husband?”

She’s startled to find herself wanting to keep talking now that one of the hardest parts is out and done with. Startled she told him in the first place. “I tried. By that point he wouldn’t see me or take my calls. I left a message with the officer in his cell block. I thought he might call me back . . .” She turns the coffee cup in a circle. “Then on the way to his sentencing hearing . . .”

“He escaped,” Eeling finishes for her.

“Yes.”

“I did a lot of digging but it’s still not clear how he got free of his leg shackles. There was chatter they weren’t secured properly but my best guess is he smuggled something to slip the locks with. Then he timed breaking out of the van perfectly.”

“The river,” she says quietly.

Eeling nods as if reliving the moment in his head. Maybe he is. “They would have caught him immediately if he hadn’t jumped from the bridge. You know the house he broke into downstream is for sale now? I went and walked around the property. Saw the workshop where he got free of the handcuffs.”

“Bet they didn’t put that in the open house brochure.”

Eeling barks a laugh, and she feels the corner of her mouth quirk. The moment passes and she sobers. “It was ingenious how he hid the owner’s car, then took a mountain bike instead,” Eeling continues. “Threw them off for days until they found the vehicle. And by then he was long gone.”

“It almost sounds like you admire him,” Hattie says.

Eeling blinks, sobering himself. “Not admire, no. But the escape was incredible. No one can deny that.”

No. She supposes not even she can deny that.

The day of Tommy’s escape she’d been half delirious with grief and surrounded by those closest to her when the phone rang—one of the last people on earth she wanted to speak to on the other end. Detective Ramsby had sounded very strange—the smarm completely drained from him—saying there’d been an incident and that there were officers on their way to secure her location. She’d asked what he meant by that, but he was already gone.

The plainclothes police had arrived shortly thereafter, first searching the house and then the outbuildings before taking up position at the end of the driveway where the supply of news vans had suddenly been replenished. She learned the details of Tommy’s escape from one of the kinder officers—a woman with short auburn hair and warm hazel eyes, while her mourning posse stood by looking aghast. Leah had been among them with one hand cupped protectively over her rounded stomach as she listened intently.

Within a day both Leah and Dustin had gone into hiding. The day after that Hattie buried her husband.

“I actually thought he might show up to the funeral, like in a movie,” she says almost to herself. “I kept looking around the cemetery expecting to see him standing off to the edge, incognito or something. I was in shock, of course. From Ed and then knowing Tommy was free.”

“I bet there were cops there just in case.”

“There was. About a dozen hidden all over. A few even disguised as mourners, which I really hated.”

“But it was necessary.”

“Necessary. Yes. So much is necessary.” Reflexively she turns to look out the den windows and catches herself.

“Very few people escape custody and fewer still remain at large. How do you think he was able to do that?” Eeling asks.

She’s turned this exact question over in her mind like a tumbler smoothing a rock. “He was always very capable. Good with his hands. Ed taught him a lot about tools and building things. Tommy understood the mechanics of whatever he was working on, whether it was an essay or a small engine. I’m sure he approached his escape the same way. Desperation had a lot to do with it too. His father had just died, he was on his way to a sentencing hearing that would’ve put him behind bars for the rest of his life. What did he have to lose?” She pauses, continuing to avert her gaze from the window. “When he was small Tommy’s favorite game was hide-and-seek. He and Ed would play it for hours. He was always very good at hiding. He still is.”

It’s more than this, but she can’t quite get herself to explain it since she’s never been able to fully reconcile it herself. Some intrinsic part of Tommy has allowed him to remain free when most others would’ve been apprehended within weeks or months. It’s probably a little of Ed’s stoic patience and some of her own instincts blended together. In that sense Ed was very much correct. We made this.

“Can I ask you something?” Eeling says, bringing her back.

“Why stop now?”

“Is there a reason why you’re avoiding looking out the window?”

She’s so stunned by the observation she can’t answer for a second. “It’s . . .”

“It’s what?” he asks very gently.

Even in periphery she can still make out the owl’s shape. Can feel its gaze. She knows it isn’t the same one from the night of Ed’s death. Isn’t possible with the passage of eight years and over five hundred miles in between. But—

“I don’t like the owl,” she says before she can reconsider.

Eeling glances toward the ocean, leaning halfway across the table, then settles back into his chair. “What owl?”

Hattie looks up at him, then forces herself to turn toward the window.

The owl is gone.

28

Impossible.

It was just there. But now the branch is empty as if it had never been there at all.

It was never there at all.

The thought is disturbing and appealing all at once.

Eeling is looking at her strangely, his lips parted as if he’s about to ask if she’s all right, and if he does she might just scream instead of replying.

They’re both saved by the ringing of Eeling’s phone. Hattie catches a glimpse of a woman’s smiling face on the screen—the same woman, she’s sure, from the picture on his lockscreen holding the little boy.

Eeling’s seemingly torn for a beat, then says, “I’ll be right back,” and answers the call as he’s stepping outside onto her front porch.

Hattie sits rigidly, not allowing herself to look out the window, fearing the owl will be there again, playing its own game of hide-and-seek. One confined to her imagination.

“—thought you said next week.” Eeling’s voice filters through the wall. He appears with his back to the nearest window, one hand pressing the phone to his ear while the other rubs his neck. Hattie watches him for a moment before her gaze slides to his open laptop.

When he meanders down the porch out of sight, she moves.

Up around to his side of the table, and yes, he didn’t put the laptop to sleep. The screen is open to several tabs—one of them being some kind of recording software that has been paused, while another is a Word document filled with paragraphs of notes. She shoots a quick glance at the windows, then navigates back to the computer’s desktop, pulse slamming in every inch of her body. There are dozens of file folders arrayed on the background. Her eyes flit over them, searching for something familiar as Eeling’s shadow falls across the window again.

Hattie stiffens but he’s still facing mostly away from her, now massaging at his temple. “That’s not what you said before,” Eeling says. And for a horrible moment she’s sure he’s going to look in at her and she’ll be caught dead. All he needs to do is turn his head slightly to the left. But he paces the opposite way again and she returns her attention to the screen.

There. A file folder at the bottom left marked TEC.

Thomas Edwin Conlee, she thinks, clicking the icon. It was how the media always referred to Tommy, how they always seem to refer to serial killers by their full names. As if identifying them as fully as possible robs them of their power. Maybe they’re right.

Inside the folder are dozens of other files—a mixture of audio recordings and Word docs. She doesn’t waste time reading any of the labels, instead clicking into Eeling’s email and opening a new message. It takes three tries to type her own email address correctly as her betraying fingers chatter across the wrong keys. When it’s finally done she attaches the TEC file folder and hits “Send.”

A message appears on the screen. Attachment too large, files must be compressed. Proceed? She clicks “Yes” and a progress bar begins filling in agonizing slowness. Hattie watches, heart continuing to batter against her rib cage. Any second Eeling will come strolling back inside to find her crouched over his—

The front door opens and she flinches, bringing the laptop’s cursor over the “Cancel” option on the sending email. “If that’s what you really want,” Eeling says from the entry. It sounds like he’s hovering in the doorway and she hesitates. “Well, no, I’m not okay with it, but if you’re insisting—”

The progress bar is three-quarters there.

Come on. Come on. Come on.

“Listen, I understand why you’re upset, but you have to . . .” His voice fades slightly as he moves back outside to the porch. The progress bar creeps some more, then stalls.

“Come on, you bastard,” she whispers. “Let’s go.”

There is an endless pause before the bar fills and there’s a quiet whooshing sound. She clicks out of the email and brings up the tabs she minimized, then swivels to her side of the table and sits. Warm relief spreads through her but just as quickly flash freezes.

She hurries back around the table and pulls the email up again, mis-clicking twice before managing to open the “Sent” list. She fumbles for the right option as Eeling’s voice climbs in volume. “Can’t we talk about it more when I’m back in town? Please?”

There. A “Delete” button with a little trash can above it. She punches it. A message box appears. Delete message?

“Yeah, well . . .” Then quieter, “Just tell him I love him, okay?” The front door clicks shut.

Hattie punches the “Yes” button and minimizes the email.

He’s in the entryway.

There’s no time to get back to her seat.

She pivots to the sink and grabs an empty glass to fill with water.

The glass slips from her fingers and shatters in the sink as Eeling steps into the kitchen.

“Shit,” Hattie hisses.

There’s an interminable stretch of silence. “Everything okay?”

She doesn’t trust herself to face him so she gives a brief wave over one shoulder. “Dropped a glass. Clumsy.” She gathers the shards, trying to fight off the adrenaline tremors in her hands and deposits them in the trash before risking a look his way.

He’s staring at the laptop screen. She pretends to busy herself with a few other dishes, all the while keeping one eye on him. She must’ve left some evidence behind: one of the tabs shifted slightly or some sign of the sent email. When she returns to her seat she searches his expression and notes a few extra frown lines on his brow. Her hands have quit shaking and she trusts her voice enough to ask him what else he wants to know—if only to distract him from whatever he’s contemplating—but before she can do so a noise comes from the front yard.

Hattie shifts in her seat to get a better view, but she knows the sound of an approaching vehicle on the driveway. And what’s worse is she knows the vehicle as well as the occupants.

A second after the green SUV pulls to a stop beside Eeling’s car, both front doors open and Wendy Crawford climbs out along with Julian.

They both head straight for the house.

29

“Fuck.”

It’s the only word that will do.

Hattie lurches to her feet. “Not a word. Hear me?” She doesn’t wait for a confirmation—Wendy and Julian are already coming up the steps and sometimes they let themselves right in if they know she’s home because she’s told them to. She pulls the door open as Wendy is reaching out for the knob.

“Oh, hi,” Wendy says, startled.

“Hey, you two,” Hattie says, giving them both the best smile she can muster. “What’s going on?”

“Sorry to barge in, it’s just—do you have company? We don’t want to interrupt.”

“Not company, no. Just”—the gears of her mind spin maddeningly—“a county auditor.”

“They’re the worst,” Wendy says sotto voce.

“Why?” Julian asks.

“Never mind.” Wendy winces. “We’re in a bind but we’ll figure something else out.”

“No, what’s going on?”

“Kevin’s stuck in court and my evening shift at the library just called in because her daughter’s sick and there’s no one else to cover. I was wondering if he could stay with you until one of us gets home, but if you’re tied up . . .”

Julian shoots her a hopeful look.

“Of course. No problem at all. We do have a puzzle to finish, do we not?” Julian smiles and for a moment it’s worth all that she’s gone through. All of it.

“You’re a saint,” Wendy says. She glances over Hattie’s shoulder. “Want us to wait until he’s . . .”

“No, he was just leaving.”

Wendy gives Julian a hug and a kiss on the top of his head, telling him to make sure he does the reading he’s been assigned for the night before hurrying back to her car. Hattie brings Julian inside and scoots him straight down the hallway before he can pause at the sight of Eeling, who hasn’t moved from his seat.

“I’ll make some cocoa,” she says. “You get settled.” When the guest room door clicks shut she sags and braces herself on the back of a kitchen chair.

“Guessing that’s it for today,” Eeling says, packing up his things. She sees him out, making certain Julian’s door is still tightly shut.

On the porch Eeling pauses, the breeze lifting some of his hair. “I think we can finish tomorrow. And I’ll be able to explain some things then. After that I won’t bother you anymore.”

Doubt it. She also doubts he’ll follow through given the ghosting routine he’s pulled on the kids. Chances are he won’t show up tomorrow at all. Given that, she’s filled with a deep satisfaction knowing much if not all of his work is now sitting in her inbox to be read at her leisure.

“What are you thinking?” he asks.

“That I’ll be glad when this is all done with.”

He goes down the stairs and pauses at the bottom. “It’s not just wanting to be close to him, is it? You’re watching him.”

The world grays at the edges, then reasserts itself. She doesn’t reply. Only stands with her arms crossed, hands cupping her elbows, staring through him.

“See you tomorrow,” he says. When he’s gone she goes in and shuts the door, leaning against it heavily, the weight of the day along with Eeling’s insight hanging around her neck and shoulders like an invisible millstone.

Julian’s door opens and the boy himself appears at the head of the hallway. The sight of him and the promise of his company for the evening heartens her.

“Let’s get that cocoa going,” she says.

It earns her another smile.

30

They have their cocoa and work on the owl puzzle.

For a while she has a hard time looking at the birds but slowly they become exactly what they are—two-dimensional cardboard cuttings. Their flesh and blood counterpart hasn’t returned. The urge to ask Julian if he’s noticed an owl at any point in the last few weeks comes and goes. She’s afraid he’ll say no and even more afraid he’ll say yes.

The more time they spend in the den beside the glowing stove, the more the day fades and with it her anxiety. Partially it’s getting some distance from everything but mostly it’s Julian. He’s quiet as usual but his presence is enough to buoy her mood. She watches as the last pieces dwindle before he clicks the final one in place and sits back from the completed puzzle with a look of satisfaction.

She claps politely. “Bravo.”

“Thank you, thank you.”

“I’ll have to find a tougher one next time.”

He straightens the puzzle. “I liked this one when we started, but . . .”

“But what?”

A shrug. “Makes me feel weird now.”

“Weird how?”

“I don’t know.” He shifts in his seat and looks out at the ocean. In this light she can see Tommy in him clearly. Mostly around the eyes and nose. His mouth is Leah’s, and she has the sudden terrible impulse to tell him everything. To lay it all out so it’s done with. No more lies or charades. The truth bared for better or worse.

The moment swells, then passes.

“Getting hungry?” she asks. He shakes his head, still looking out at the water. “Everything okay?” It’s a long time before he answers, but she senses he’s going to, so she gives him the time he needs.

“Bastion was back today.”

Bastion Graner. The bully.

Hattie still can’t believe someone would name their child Bastion and expect him to turn out okay. “I thought he was suspended?”

“He was. But I saw his parents talking to the principal this morning.”

That tracks. Bully kid, bully parents. “Did he do something to you again?” A slight shake of his head. “Did he say something?”

“He—” Julian frowns and finally looks away from the view. “He went like this.” He brings his thumb up and draws it across his neck in a cutthroat gesture.

“Did you tell a teacher?”

“No. No one saw it but me.”

“Maybe you should tell your mom and dad. They could—”

“Nothing will happen. It’ll just make it worse.”

“I could talk to them for you. We can make sure he won’t ever bother you again.” She takes one of his hands. “It’s okay if you’re afraid.”

“I’m not afraid. I’m . . .” She waits again, feeling like they’re nearing something crucial. “I’m angry.”

She nearly releases his hand. It’s not just the admission, it’s how Tommy suddenly comes forward. More than a family likeness—it’s as if her son is there instead of Julian.

There’s a knee-jerk reaction to simply change the subject and move on. And she knows Julian would be okay with that. But there’s also the promise she made to herself when she decided to keep Ed’s gun case locked and go on living instead.

If she ever got a second chance she wouldn’t look away when something disturbing presented itself—

The heart always comes home.

—she’d push and make sure she did everything she could. Because regret is dense, and she knows she can’t carry any more. Not in this life.

And because the boy beside her now is a living, breathing second chance.

“When you’re angry, do you want to hurt someone? Or something?” she asks gently but also as openly as she can. She found early on in her teaching career if you didn’t talk down to kids and treated them with the same respect as adults, they responded in ways that would surprise you. “You can be honest. I won’t be upset.”

Less than a whisper. “Yes.”

“And do you? Do you ever hurt things?”

“No.” A long pause. “Just myself.”

She takes a long, slow breath. “How?”

Julian makes a fist of his small hand and mimes hitting himself in the thigh. Then the face.

God.

“It’s okay to feel angry,” she says carefully. “But I would never want you to hurt yourself. Do you understand why?” A nod. “Good. I think you do. You’re a very smart boy and sometimes understanding things, especially when you’re young, comes with a price. Does that make sense?”

“I think so.”

“We pay that price by talking about things. By letting them out before they pile up and get to be too much. So if you ever feel like there’s too much up here”—she taps the side of his head softly—“you talk about it. Either with your mom or dad or with me. I’ll always listen and try to help. That’s why I’m here.”

He looks at her then with newborn curiosity, and it occurs to her she might’ve tipped too much of her hand. Julian is smart, but more than that he’s observant. And seeing something is the better part of understanding it.

She gives his hand a final squeeze and stands. “So I’ve got mac and cheese or pizza, which will it be?”

He brightens. “Pizza. As long as it’s not pineapple.”

She laughs. “Not in a million years, kiddo.”

31

Dinner and Julian’s required reading fill up the rest of their evening.

When he pulls out Tuck Everlasting, a wave of nostalgia floods her. She can almost smell her old classroom and hear the quiet turning of pages during reading time. Julian reads a chapter to her out loud and for a time she drifts with the story, not thinking of anything but listening to her grandson’s voice. When he finishes it’s the best she’s felt since Ross Eeling appeared on her doorstep with his blackmail and questions.

Around eight Kevin texts saying he’ll be home in fifteen and asking if she wants him to swing by and pick up Julian, but she says she’ll walk him over. It’s not just that she wants to spend a little more time with him, she also wants to have a word alone with Kevin.

It’s full dark when they set off along the shore, waves washing gently over the rocks below. Hattie shines her flashlight ahead of them and is warmed when Julian takes her hand halfway to his house, not letting go until they’re at the front door.

“Hey, buddy,” Kevin says, hugging his son briefly in the entryway. “Have fun with Mary?”

“Yep.”

“Get your reading done?”

“Yep.”

“Know any words other than ‘yep’?”

A devilish grin. “Yep.”

Kevin ruffles his hair. “Say good night and thank you.”

“Good night and thank you.” Julian gives her a wave and winds his way into the house and is gone.

“Thanks for watching him. Didn’t give you any trouble, did he?”

“He was a joy as always.”

“Great. Wanna come in?”

She doesn’t. And not only because she feels that Kevin is only being polite. “Could we talk for a second? Out here?” He cocks his head but steps out onto the porch and pulls the door closed behind him. “Julian told me the bully was back in school today.”

Kevin frowns. “Yeah, we received an email. The principal decided three days’ suspension was enough.”

“Sounds like his parents got involved.”

“I’m sure they did. They’re somewhat notorious for ‘getting involved’ in lots of things.” His fingers hook with air quotes.

“I’m worried something might happen if the two of them aren’t kept apart.”

“The principal assured us they would be. And there’d be much harsher repercussions if the kid ever touched Jules again.”

Hattie finds that she’s wringing her hands. “Has he ever talked to either of you about his anger?”

“Anger? Jules? No.”

“I think he’s keeping it bottled up and if he doesn’t get some help something bad may happen.”

Kevin crosses his arms. “Why? What did he say to you?”

“That he”—she lowers her voice further—“hurts himself sometimes. Maybe you’ve noticed some bruises?” She waits but Kevin only studies her, and she guesses this is how someone on the stand must feel beneath his scrutiny. “I don’t know if Wendy mentioned getting him into therapy, but—”

“Look, Mary.” Kevin’s voice drops an octave and his smile is faint and cool. “We appreciate you helping us out from time to time, but we’re his parents, okay? We’ll decide what’s best for him. Thanks again for tonight.”

Kevin turns and goes inside, shutting the door without a look back.

Hattie stays where she is for a beat, then steps off the porch and walks into the dark.

Once out from under the trees there’s enough ambient light to make her way so she doesn’t turn on the flashlight. The ocean is a flat expanse with the distant lights of a ship bobbing somewhere miles to the east. Across the bay Sloan’s place is as dark as the water and she’s not sure if she’s ever felt so alone.

What had she really expected? Kevin’s right—Julian is theirs, not hers, no matter how much she pretends. No matter how many times she watches him or how many cups of cocoa she makes or how helpful she is, she’ll always just be the sweet old neighbor lady. And someday Julian will move away to college, and he’ll mostly forget about her other than when he comes home on the odd weekend. That is until he gets curious about his birth parents and eventually finds the truth.

Then what will he think of you?

She’ll talk to Wendy again. Wendy will listen. Kevin knew in some respect that she’s right, that his quiet son may be troubled in some unknown way, and that’s probably why he was so defensive. People usually were when you pointed out something they were doing their best to ignore. She wishes someone would’ve said something to her about Tommy. Maybe things would’ve been different. Maybe she would’ve been different.

In any case, if she can do something now for Julian she failed to for his father, then it will have been worth it. Even the fleeting time they have together will have been—

Someone is standing beside the owl tree watching her.

Hattie freezes and so does her pulse. The stillness in her veins is terrible but nothing compared to the fear that suddenly shoots through them instead. She fumbles for the flashlight and her heart does a sickening running-jump and takes flight.

The flashlight slips from her fingers and falls to the ground.

The person leans farther out from the tree as if they’re getting ready to come toward her. Run toward her.

Hattie stoops, hands combing the stone and moss until her fingers brush the flashlight’s barrel. She doesn’t stand back up, just flicks the switch and throws the beam toward the figure that she’s sure will now be only steps away.

The flashlight spears through the dark, revealing the empty corner of her yard and the owl tree, swaying gently in the night wind.

Nothing else. She’s alone.

But it doesn’t feel that way.

She sidles away from the sea and closer to the front door in case she needs to bolt inside. Her body feels loose and unwieldy, as if she’s operating it from some far-off place. She swipes the beam across the yard and the side of the cottage.

Nothing. No figures or crouching shapes.

She takes a tentative step toward the tree where she saw the person, if that’s what it really was. It could’ve been another tree trunk, a rock, her imagination. Anything else is acceptable instead of—

The snap of a branch echoes across the yard. Her muscles clench and she nearly drops the flashlight again.

Get inside.

Instead she moves forward, getting closer and closer to the tree until she can see around its large, gnarled trunk.

No one hides behind it or in the lower brush beyond. Hattie scans the dark past the beam’s reach, searching for movement, listening for another branch to snap, for a footfall. But there’s only the breeze combing through the pine boughs behind her.

Behind her.

She can feel them coming, having circled around to the far side of the house and now they’re rushing across the grass, hurtling toward her—

She spins, actually seeing cantering shadows and steeling herself for the impact, but the yard is empty and still. She’s alone.

“Eeling?” Even as she speaks she feels foolish because why would he answer? And more importantly, why would he be out in the night stalking her? There’s no logical reason, but she also can’t shake the feeling that someone else is out there in the dark.

She backs away, turning in slow circles, panning the surrounding area with the flashlight until she’s beside the front porch. Then she turns and hurries up the steps, locking the door once she’s inside.

It doesn’t give her the relief she hoped it would.

32

Moonlight pools on the hallway floor like spilled milk and she doesn’t want to step into it for fear of wetting her feet.

It will be very cold. And deep.

Hattie stands looking down the hall, knowing she has to go to the end where her bedroom door stands partway open. There’s something here, something waiting for her to see, even though it’s the last thing she wants to do. There is safety in the other direction, the openness of the world and all the places in it to run to and hide in. Instead, she finds herself moving down the hall, fingertips brushing the wall in harsh whispers as if she’s trying to hold herself back.

The sensation of floating overwhelms her, and when she reaches the wash of moonlight her feet skim it but don’t plunge through it like she feared they would. Then the door is to the left and her hand reaches out to push it all the way open.

Her room is dappled with the same sickening glow staining the floorboards made starker by the velvet dark of shadows beneath the bed and in the corners.

She is lying in the middle of the bed and Tommy is curled next to her.

The instant she sees herself she knows she’s dead. Her eyes are open in a false mimicry of life, and what’s more telling is the slackness of her mouth—Ed’s looked the same way when she found him on his shop floor. There is a dark inkblot of blood on her pillow behind her ear.

Tommy lies with his back to her, knees up in a fetal position. He’s wearing one of his old baseball uniforms, the number 7 glowing whitely in the moonlight. A scream boils deep in her stomach, trying to well up, but she can’t let it out, can’t let him know she’s here, that she saw him. She has to back away and close the door and run. Run away as fast as she can.

She tries to do just that, but she’s stuck in place as if her feet have rooted to the floor. And there is a sound outside the cottage—familiar and at the same time totally alien.

The owl.

It’s beginning to hoot from somewhere very close, except its voice has been slowed to a crawl.

Whooooooooooooowhooooooooooohoooooohoooooooooooooooooooooooo.

She has time to think of an old air raid siren winding up, then Tommy turns to face her. Except it isn’t Tommy at all.

It’s Julian.

He rolls from the bed to his feet with a horrible alacrity, like a spider unfurling from its web, and moves toward her, head cocked in curiosity. The moon glints off something in his hand and she doesn’t need to look to know it’s Ed’s wood awl. The one Tommy stole from the shop and used to murder four people.

Now it’s Julian’s.

A moan mingles within the long, horrible owl call and it takes a heartbeat to realize it came from her. Julian tips his head the other way as if confused both by the sound and the fact she’s upright in the doorway and prone on the bed at the same time.

Hattie tries squeezing her eyes shut with what feels like the last of her strength as Julian stops only inches away. He’s grown to her height now, and the last thing she sees as she manages to close her eyes is his own leering closer, peering into her as if he can see the flitting of her thoughts.

Then she’s in the dark herself, knowing it won’t keep her safe but unable to look at her grandson/son any longer. The owl howls on and on and on and she feels the moorings of her mind begin to give way.

Julian breathes coldly on her face. She smells dead leaves and north wind.

She tries opening her mouth to scream but opens her eyes instead.

She’s standing on her front porch.

The night still holds sway. The trees lean in tall shadows with gusts of wind that have more of a bite than any of the past weeks. And she is cold. So cold.

The dream (nightmare, night terror, night horror, take your pick), is fading and reality is reasserting itself. Her hands hurt—they’re clasped on the icy porch railing, and maybe that’s what really brought her around. Whatever it was, she’s grateful to be awake. Another few seconds asleep and she’s sure she would’ve lost her mind. Woke up raving and disconnected. Maybe even woke to the dream continuing as if she weren’t awake at all.

She tightens her hands into fists and the pain is enough to break the thought spiral and get her moving inside. She’s halfway through the kitchen when the shivers begin. By the time she’s kneeling before the stove she’s shaking so hard she can barely hold the poker long enough to stir the coals and add a few pieces of oak.

Flames lick up around the dry wood and she offers her aching fingers toward them like a sacrifice. As feeling seeps back in she glances around the den, taking reassurance in its low, comforting space.

She spent a while in here before going to sleep, trying to determine whether she’d actually seen someone lurking outside or not. By the time she brushed her teeth and climbed into bed she’d settled on no. It had been a shadow along with her overly worried state of mind joining hands and taking her for a ride. That was it. That was all.

But it wasn’t. At least mentally it hadn’t been.

She’s never sleepwalked before, if that’s what this was, and the quality of the dream had been so hyperreal it makes her shiver all over again. Combined with the fact she somehow climbed out of bed and made it down the hallway and out to the front porch is frightening on a whole new level. She feels puppetlike, strings pulled by unseen hands.

All in your head.

She hopes so, she really does. And at the same time the thought is deeply unnerving.

When her fingers have fully regained feeling she retreats to her chair and wraps herself in a blanket. The fire pours light and heat into the room and some internal valve loosens enough to admit Julian’s quiet confession along with Eeling’s probing of the past is why she dreamed that . . . well, that shit. But it’s something else too. It’s—

The heart always comes home.

—guilt. Pure through and through.

Even as she tries brushing it aside as she’s been able to successfully do for over a decade, the memory grows in size and definition until it’s unavoidable. Until it’s all encompassing. Until she must let it in.

Hattie closes her eyes and does.

December 2012

She found the poem while doing laundry.

Among the hundred other tasks needing completion before Christmas morning, which was only ten days away, laundry seemed ever present, like its own holiday ghost. The men of the house were very good at filling the clothes hampers, not so much at emptying them.

Speaking of the men of the house, they were due back soon with the Christmas tree. They’d all been way behind on decorating and holiday chores this year, and the ritual trek into the back acreage of their property to harvest a tree had fallen by the wayside of their congested schedules. But soon they’d be back and the living room would smell of evergreen as the fireplace warmed the pine’s branches. Later they’d decorate it together—probably one of the last few times since Tommy was sixteen now and college was right around the corner. The days with their son at home were thinning and soon he’d begin the slow separation into what would become his own life.

Hopefully he’d carry some of their traditions, some of them, with him.

Hattie smiled a little wistfully as she was stripping Tommy’s bed and the single page of printer paper slid up the wall from where it had been wedged, then drifted down out of sight.

Homework, she thought, nudging the bed away from the wall enough to slide her arm down and pluck the page from the company of several dust bunnies that she mentally noted to alert Tommy of later. And when she first glanced at it the suspicion seemed correct. Until she began to read what was typed there in plain Times New Roman.

Your cold arms tighten with love

And hold me

As the night brightens and I smell your decay

Like old flowers

And shit

In bed I’m safe with your shell

You’re near and far away

The pain turns inside me

Becoming cold hard

Steel

Like the knife I want to cut you with

The sky sings you’re gone

But on the street I see you again and again

And I lie here with your rotting

Husk

But I’m never alone

With your dead arms around me

The heart always comes home

She read it once, then again, and a third time. There was a sickening sliding in her middle like some integral piece of her had given way and was drifting down and wouldn’t ever be put right again.

Hattie turned and sat on the end of Tommy’s bed, the page wobbling in one hand. She set it down, not wanting to touch it anymore. She started to read it again and stopped herself. The words had a strange effect, feeling both intimate and obscene. It was like a door had been opened into the innermost workings of her son’s mind and she’d glimpsed something she absolutely shouldn’t have and wished she didn’t. She actually would’ve preferred stumbling onto pornography of some kind—that she could deal with. That she at least could understand. But this . . .

She grasped the paper, crumpling it before she knew she was going to do so. It was automatic, bordering on violent. She wanted it gone. No, not just gone, destroyed. She stood and made her way upstairs to the living room where Ed had set the fire crackling in the hearth before they’d left. She smoothed the page and read it again, unable to stop herself. This didn’t belong here in their house in their mostly ordered lives. This wasn’t Tommy.

Hattie shoved the page into the flames, and they leaped higher. The words darkened and curled to ash.

Good. Gone. Two words that should’ve made her feel better but didn’t.

She went into the kitchen and mindlessly began heating some milk to make the eggnog she’d promised Ed and Tommy on their return. As she got out the vanilla and eggs, she told herself it was an assignment, something Mr. Hennessy had given Tommy’s English class, except she knew the man and poetry wasn’t anywhere on his radar. Besides, Tommy had mentioned only the week before they were doing advanced grammar at the moment, which he particularly hated.

It could’ve been an aberrance. A one-off. Something he’d even seen on TV or the internet. Maybe . . . but this had felt personal. The idea Tommy had those thoughts and feelings swirling around inside him sent a wave of illness through her. Was this something she needed to talk to him about? Ed? A therapist?

Or was it something she could overlook?

The thought was supremely attractive. She could set the poem aside (forget it if she could) but also keep a closer eye on him from now on. Sweep his room from time to time when he wasn’t home. If she found anything—anything at all—then she’d address it. After all, he’d never shown any disturbing signs before. He was quiet and reserved but had a great sense of humor and a cadre of excellent friends. He wasn’t on drugs (that they knew of), his grades were great, and his teachers adored him.

So was this really something she needed to worry about?

Snow began to fall gently beyond the window, which felt like an answer. No. Not now. Maybe not ever. Through the drifting white two figures appeared, one dragging a dark V of an evergreen. She stood gazing out at them and a still warmth fell over her heart. This was Tommy she was thinking about. She knew him. He wasn’t disturbed or ill. He was just a boy. He was her son.

Hattie turned away from the window and continued making the eggnog.

A poem was just a poem. It couldn’t hurt anyone.

33

Tears wet her eyelashes and roll hotly down her cheeks.

If asked prior to Eeling’s arrival she would’ve said she’d cried everything out years ago. And that might’ve been true then. But now it was different. Now the past no longer slumbered. It was wide-eyed and awake with bared teeth.

Hattie sniffles and swipes at her face. These are the chains binding her ghost, these memories of what could’ve been. What should’ve been. If she had spoken to Tommy about the poem, hadn’t let it go, gotten him treatment of some kind, lives might’ve been saved.

But she’d been blinded by love’s denial, and she won’t make that mistake again.

Hattie settles deeper into the chair. The dream was a warning—her subconscious yelling at the top of its lungs—that much is obvious. Tommy and his son aren’t the same person, but the fear Julian’s stained by dark impulses is becoming sharper inside her, honed by each passing day. She’s not sure if it’s the goddamn writer and his questions or her brimming guilt, but it’s strong. Strong.

Something’s coming.

A final shudder tries worming its way through her but she’s too exhausted and warm and the fire is very soothing. She has an inkling that she might actually be falling asleep, but then that’s also lost in an undertow so strong she doesn’t know it’s taking her until she’s gone.

This time there are no dreams.

34

Fog hides the ocean from her the next morning.

It’s the thickest she’s seen in all the years she’s lived on the cove, and not just a little disconcerting given how it’s erased everything around the cottage. She has a momentary image of her little piece of property having been plucked up by some titanic force in the night and whisked far away into a gray nowhere. That if she walked into the fog the ground would end and she would fall forever in an endless nothing.

She makes coffee and keeps checking the driveway for Eeling throughout the first cup. By the second an idea begins to come forward, one that continues to strengthen as the day brightens and the fog retreats but doesn’t surrender.

Around noon when she’s really becoming hungry for the first time that day, she starts to believe he won’t show. An hour later, after she’s eaten some of the leftover pizza from the night before, she’s sure of it.

“You bastard,” she says, looking down the empty driveway. But there’s no real surprise, not after talking with the kids and knowing Eeling’s consistent MO. He, of course, like everyone else, is a creature of habit.

The feeling of being used is starkly overshadowed by relief as she busies herself with the few chores she’s ignored since Eeling’s appearance. There will be no more intrusions into her home, no more questions, no more recorded interviews or autopsy of the past. That’s all done.

When her phone rings twenty minutes later she thinks the victory lap was all premature. It will be Eeling saying he’s just running behind and will be there soon. This even though she realizes she’s never given him her number. Instead, it’s someone she’s much happier to hear from.

“There’s a box of books upstairs in the guest room,” Sloan says as a greeting.

“Okayyyy?”

“Adam brought them last time he visited, and I told him not to leave them up there but do kids listen? I’ll break my damn hip if I try to carry it, so I need you to come by at some point and bring it down for me.”

“Please.”

“Please what?”

Hattie sighs and is pleasantly surprised when it turns into a chuckle. “Put a fresh pot of coffee on, I’ll be over by the time it’s ready.”

35

When she arrives at Sloan’s the bay is only partially visible, a heavy mist bank obscuring everything farther out. Only one fishing boat is in sight, its lonely bobbing like a sad song’s refrain.

The house is warm and she smells coffee the moment she steps through the door. Sloan is in the library, this time kneeling near the southern wall with dozens of books spread around him.

“Reorganizing?” she asks.

“Hmmm? Oh—yes. I almost wish I would’ve kept this wall solid for more shelf space. Running out of room.”

“You could donate some of the ones you’ve read.” She’s met with a semi-scalding look over one shoulder. “Or not.”

“Every book I own is worth reading multiple times. Why else would you purchase it in the first place?”

“What about mysteries?”

He’s a long time answering. “What about them?”

“When you already know who done it, doesn’t that take away some of the fun?”

Sloan rises with a grunt and sets a stack of books on a nearby table. “A good mystery is more than its outcome. It’s a journey. And journeys are always full of surprises.”

“Even after you know the way?”

Sloan appraises her. “Especially then.”

Hattie feels a faint tingle at the top of her spine. She rubs away the gooseflesh on her arms and says, “So where’s this box of books?”

“Third room on the right, by the foot of the bed. And be careful of the bottom, it might want to fall out.”

She goes back down the hallway, stopping long enough to fix herself a small cup of coffee. As she’s taking a sip a floorboard overhead creaks and she stills, listening past the sounds of Sloan puttering away. Nothing. Just the continual settling of tired timbers. She sets her cup down, then heads to the stairway near the entry. It’s a narrow, twisted affair with treads so shallow the back half of her foot hangs off them. Hattie goes up and turns ninety degrees on an afterthought of a landing, then climbs to the second-floor hallway.

There are three doors on either side of the hall. Besides the upstairs bath, the rest are bedrooms with the exception of the last on the left, which Sloan told her was once an office but has since deteriorated into storage. She’d poked her head in there once and found herself face-to-face with boxes of all sizes stacked nearly ceiling high. At the far end of the hall is a matching staircase leading to the back portion of the house.

She’s never liked it up here.

Somehow the upper level feels older than the ground floor. The air is closer and there’s always a held-breath feel to the space like it’s anxiously waiting for someone or something. Or maybe it’s just because it’s less lived in. Sloan rarely comes up here, and it’s not only because the stairs are the equivalent of a meat grinder for an elderly person. It’s also because of Nicholas, his drowned son. The second room on the left was Nicky’s, and she’s sure the majority of the things stored away at the end of the hall are his or connected to his existence, brief as it was. Sloan is as tough as they come, but some things never stop cutting. She doesn’t blame him for stowing Nicholas’s things out of sight, she would’ve done the same.

Hell, I did do the same, she muses, making her way down the hall, the floor protesting under her feet. She’d brought almost nothing with her from Pennsylvania when she’d moved. It seemed that every piece of furniture and picture frame was loaded with a memory that blew a hole through her heart each time she looked at it. One of the therapists told her matter-of-factly that objects were just objects and we imbue them with too much meaning. She doubts he’d ever lost anything more valuable than his wallet. She doubts it like hell.

The box of books is in the guest room right where Sloan said it would be. And it’s heavy. She’s infinitely glad he didn’t try carrying it himself as she hoists it awkwardly to one hip and sidles back through the doorway. There’s no way he would’ve been able to maneuver it and himself down the—

She’s heading toward the stairs but pauses, glancing over her shoulder at the storage room door. It’s slightly open unlike the others on this level.

But it was closed when she went into the guest room.

She stands for an agonizing second, staring at the slit of darkness between the door and the jamb, mentally telling herself she’s not watching for movement, isn’t listening for quiet breathing. The door must’ve been open and she’d looked at it at the wrong angle. Or maybe it popped open with her passage down the hall. Yes, that was probably it.

Except she doesn’t believe it. Not really.

She takes a step toward the door, then another, part of her half expecting it to suddenly whip open and some horror to come shambling out. Maybe young Nicky himself having been in there playing with some of his old things . . .

“Stop,” she whispers, trying to dispel the image. And it works to some extent. But it does nothing to quell her curiosity, and she goes close enough until she can nudge the door with one foot.

It swings wider, wider, wider, and stops, bumping against something.

Someone.

For a second she really does see a person there looming in the dark. They are tall and powerfully built. Maybe even who was in her backyard the night before. But then the edges sharpen and the figure becomes a stack of boxes growing smaller as they go up. She angles into the doorway and throws an elbow at a wall switch, bathing the room in urinous light.

There are multiple other stacks of boxes arranged in rows with small walkways between them. Sloan’s tidy handwriting adorns most of them, and she spots Nicholas’s name more times than she wants to.

She stands there framed in the doorway, arms beginning to ache from the weight of the box, nerves taut as bridge cables. The same expectant quiet the second floor holds is stronger in this room, more concentrated. Maybe it’s the content of the boxes—all the love and memories of a life cut short calling out to whoever will listen. Or maybe it’s something else. It’s so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Or a heart beat.

“Fall asleep up there?”

Sloan’s yell scares her so badly the box tips in her hands and nearly falls before catching against a piece of blocky furniture under a sheet. Her breath drains from her and she readjusts the box before clicking the light off and dragging the door closed with the toe of her shoe.

“Coming!” she calls, sparing a single look back before hurrying down the stairs.

36

“Too much coffee?” Sloan asks, gesturing at her as she paces slowly before the windows. “You haven’t quit moving since you came in.”

Sloan unloaded the box as soon as she came down, having made ample space on one of the shelves for the new books. Hattie doesn’t know if he saw something in her face or not, but he didn’t comment on it, which she’s grateful for. The bizarre moment in the storage room feels tangential to one of her daymares. As if she could slip into one if she sat still for long enough. Which is why she’s stayed standing and why she hasn’t touched any of the croissants slathered with clotted cream and jam she fixed for their snack.

“Haven’t had a chance,” she shoots back. But of course, she could sit now and finally does. The world remains solid, unsmeared by daymares or otherwise.

“Strange weather,” Sloan says, finishing his croissant. “Goddamn strange for this time of year. It’ll be a nasty winter, mark my words.”

Hattie barely hears him. She’s drifting like the fog. Recalling the last thing Eeling said to her about Julian. It’s not just wanting to be close to him, is it? You’re watching him. She wonders how he picked up on the fact so quickly and what the real reason is for him ghosting her this morning.

Wondering why it troubles her more than it should.

“So who is he?”

She comes back from across the gulf of her thoughts. “Who is who?”

“Your company. Dark-haired guy? Came the last couple days?”

An unpleasant tightening begins at the base of her throat. Her thoughts tumble loosely and collect in a bottleneck of anger. “Don’t you have anything better to do than spy on people?” The words are out even as she tries to stop them. Sloan jerks his head back as if he’s been struck. “Sorry,” she says quickly, “I shouldn’t have said—”

He holds up a hand. “No, you’re right. I’ve gotten in a bad habit. Been worse since I can’t swim anymore.” He gazes longingly at the water below the bank. “If there’s not a book in my hands I find the binoculars there instead. Another way of escaping, I guess.”

Looking at her chastened friend and feeling like a total shit she says, “He was a friend of my son’s.” This brings Sloan’s eyes back up to hers. She’s talked very little about the made-up child who died by his own hand. Mostly because the things she’s said so far are too close to the truth for comfort. But also because lying is a foul game with fluid rules and no winners. “It was nice to see him, but it was hard too. Talking about the past always stirs things up for me. Old feelings.”

Sloan reaches for his coffee cup, then folds his hands together instead. “I hate myself a little to say this, but as much as I love when Adam comes to visit, I dread it too. When he steps through the door, I’m always reminded there should be someone else here who’s missing.” Sloan swallows audibly. “It’s not his fault, but I can’t help it.”

Hattie reaches out and takes one of his folded hands. Squeezes it. They sit that way for a time, not saying a word.

Finally, Sloan swipes quickly at his eyes. “So Thanksgiving—you’ll grace us with your presence, correct?”

“I’m sure I’ll be able to stop by.”

“Going to the Crawfords’ as well I suppose?”

“I’ve been invited, yes.”

“And they’ll take precedent?”

“Are we feeling insulted?”

He sniffs. “Not at all. I’m just trying to discern whether to expect you for the main meal or if you’ll just be gliding in at the tail end for some pie.”

She rolls her eyes and gives his shoulder a pat. “I gotta get home. You need anything else before I go?”

“Cataracts removed. Bladder continence restored. Coffeepot refreshed.”

“I can help you with the last one.” She sets a fresh pot brewing and calls out a goodbye before stepping outside.

On the way back to the cottage she notices some of the fog has lifted, and with it, her spirits. Spending time with Sloan has that effect. Even if he knows about Eeling, or a version of him. Now she’s lied to both Wendy and Sloan about his identity. She only hopes the topic never comes up between them. But why would it?

She’s letting her thoughts return to the remainder of the afternoon and what she’ll fill it with when she pulls into the yard and sees she has a visitor waiting on the front porch.

It’s not Eeling as her intuition keeps chanting, or Julian for that matter (which she was partially expecting as well). It’s Wendy. And whether it’s the moisture wicking across the glass or real, she doesn’t look happy. Not at all.

Hattie parks and shuts the Toyota off, barely conscious of unbuckling her seat belt and climbing out because Wendy is coming toward her and it wasn’t her imagination, there are tear streaks on her pretty face. The eyes that cried them pain-pinched.

“What’s the matter? What happened?” Hattie says as she nears. Wendy starts to reply, then covers her mouth with one hand, chest hitching. “What is it?” All at once she’s back in the classroom on that spring day with the unsparing sunshine pouring in through the windows, listening to another young woman upend her life. “Is he okay?” Please, please, please let him be.

Wendy drops her hand, head beginning to shake. “He hurt him. Really, really bad.”

“Who?” Hattie takes one of Wendy’s hands just as she’d done to Sloan a short while ago. “Who hurt Julian?”

Wendy shakes her head again, and at first Hattie thinks it’s because she can’t get herself to go on. Then she understands she’s being corrected. “Not Julian, Bastion.”

“Bastion? What do you mean?”

Wendy gathers herself, swallowing back enough emotion to get the rest out. “Stabbed,” she half whispers. “Julian stabbed him.”

37

Hattie considers the bottle of wine, then digs farther into the pantry and locates a mostly empty bottle of decent whiskey.

She pours them each a drink in low juice glasses and settles across the table from Wendy, who’s regained some composure. Hattie isn’t sure she’s going to accept the liquor, but then Wendy picks up her glass and drains half of it in one swallow. No wince. Some of the creases on her brow smooth and her shoulders relax. “Thanks,” she says. “I needed that. Everything is really . . .” She gestures weakly.

“Take your time.”

Wendy nods. She takes another small sip from her glass and says, “I never should have sent him to school today. He was so reserved. More than usual. I asked him what was wrong, but he said ‘nothing’ and got ready to go like always.” Her gaze is distant. “But I knew, you know? Knew something was wrong or was going to be wrong and I just went ahead anyway because school and work and . . .” She waves a dismissive hand and falls quiet.

“What happened?” Hattie asks. She keeps her voice as low and steady as possible, all the while a single word continues to strobe neon red in her mind.

Stabbed. Stabbed. Stabbed.

“The Graner kid followed him into a bathroom after lunch. He dragged Julian over to a toilet and started to—” Wendy draws in a long ragged breath. “To shove his head in it. Not just his hair like when we were kids—a swirly, they called it—but his whole face and head.” She pauses again, considers the dregs in her glass, then drains it. “Julian didn’t say where he got the scissors, but they think it was from art class. They’re the teacher’s—not the safety kind. Big and sharp. Julian said he couldn’t breathe and just lashed out. The scissors caught Bastion in the thigh and that was enough for him to let go, but then he came at Julian again and Jules, he . . . he . . .” Wendy’s face folds inward. “He stabbed him in the shoulder, and it went deep. Almost all the way through.”

“Is he okay?” Not sure which boy she’s really asking about.

“He will be. He lost some blood, but they got him to the hospital fast. A teacher came in a few seconds after it happened. Talk about great and terrible timing.”

“Where’s Julian now?”

“Home. Asleep. They were going to hold him at a delinquency center in Portland, but Kevin managed to convince the authorities to let him come home. He’s been on the phone steady since it happened. Bastion’s parents are livid. Understandably,” Wendy adds, but Hattie catches a hint of ire. “They’re going to press charges and sue and every other thing they can think up, of course. No mention of what their son did, though. What he’s been doing to Jules.”

“I suppose not.” Hattie hasn’t touched her own glass but she drinks half now, barely tasting it.

“Kevin told me what you said to him.” Wendy pushes her glass back and forth on the tabletop. “About Julian being angry. He said he honestly never noticed anything, and I don’t think he did. But . . .”

But Kevin isn’t his mother. Mothers see things that fathers don’t sometimes. “Did you?”

“The bruises. On his legs. He told me he fell on the rocks, and I believed him. I didn’t have any reason not to. At least that’s what I told myself, but I wondered. They didn’t look like bruises from falling.” She heaves in another big breath. “I wish now I would’ve pushed more. Maybe this never would’ve happened.”

Hattie has a sense of the world doubling. Folding over itself to transpose the past and present. “Don’t . . . don’t be too hard on yourself. You didn’t know. He’s very quiet.”

“What’s happening to him?” Wendy says half to herself.

I don’t know, she almost responds, but the lie dies on her tongue.

A fresh tear slides from Wendy’s left eye. “I wish I knew his parents—if they had any mental or emotional problems, if this kind of thing runs in the family, it would be easier to diagnose and treat.”

Hattie rises from the table and refills her glass. Stands drinking it at the window over the sink. Her heart judders. “Have you looked into a therapist?”

“We called three today before I came over. Kevin says he’s sorry, by the way. For how he brushed you off last night. He wishes—”

“It’s okay.”

“Can I ask—how did you . . .” Hattie waits, not able to meet the other woman’s gaze. “How did you know something bad was going to happen?” When Hattie doesn’t reply Wendy says, “Does it have something to do with your son?”

Hattie feels a boundary approaching much like the one she ignored and crossed after finding the poem in Tommy’s room. One she cursed herself for not stopping at, not giving the attention and respect it had deserved. One she vowed never to cross again if it presented itself.

“Yes,” she says, turning and setting her glass down. “There were warning signs, and I ignored them. He was crying out for help, and I was too caught up in life to understand what I was seeing. I didn’t want to see. And it killed him.”

Wendy is awestruck and silent. Hattie’s only touched briefly on her son’s fictional suicide. Usually it’s enough to turn people away from her past. Like any disturbing aspects of life they shy from it as if it could infect their own.

“I’m . . . I’m sorry,” Wendy says.

“Don’t be sorry.” Hattie kneels by the younger woman’s chair. “Be present. Be vigilant. Do something. Help him.”

Wendy nods and her features crumple with emotion as she leans into Hattie’s embrace. Hattie stares over her shoulder at the day that’s edging closer and closer to dusk.

38

When the whiskey’s gone she pours some wine, knowing it’s a mistake but doing it anyway.

She stokes the fire and watches the flames undulate behind the glass. The temperature’s dropped since she walked Wendy back to her house, depositing her on the steps with another long hug. She’d asked to come by the next day to see Julian, and Wendy said that would be fine. Just as long as Julian felt up to it.

Now the thought of seeing him makes her stomach roil sickeningly, and she hates the sensation because it’s familiar. She used to feel like this when getting ready to visit Tommy in prison.

Hattie closes her eyes and tries doing her breathing, but it doesn’t work like usual. She takes a long sip of wine instead, already feeling the throb of a liquor-mix headache forming at the base of her skull.

When Tommy was small Ed had built him a teeter-totter in their backyard. Any other father without Ed’s woodworking skill would have made it a simple affair—a single board with handles at either end and an axis in the middle. But Ed had gone all out carving custom seats and an adjustable tipping point so Tommy’s lighter weight would be more offset by the leverage.

She sees the teeter-totter now, feels it tipping back and forth in her heart.

Julian was defending himself.

He stabbed him. Twice.

He was half drowned.

He was angry.

He’s not Tommy.

He’s Tommy’s son.

Back and forth. Back and forth until she’s seasick. This is what she’s been waiting for, what she’s been dreading. Eeling was right—she’s been watching Julian. Watching for what she missed in Tommy.

And she’s terrified she’s found it.

Hattie stands unsteadily, then makes her way to the kitchen and pours out the final sip of wine before corking the remainder of the bottle. The last thing she needs is a hangover, though that ship might’ve already sailed. The light over the sink is on and her reflection is there in the window looking back at her—a vague representation of the real thing. Maybe that’s what she is now. She doesn’t know what she’s doing. Worse yet, doesn’t know what she should do.

That’s not true. You’ve known it all along. It’s just that you don’t want to do it.

Hattie stares at her reflection, thinking of what Wendy said earlier. I wish I knew his parents—if this kind of thing runs in the family, it would be easier to diagnose and treat. And she could tell her, tell her everything. But would it make a difference?

“Maybe,” she whispers, watching her lips move in the window glass. Was “maybe” good enough to burn everything down? To save it all?

Teeter-totter. Back and forth.

She fills a glass full of water and drinks it down. An early bedtime would be the smartest move, but something causes her to pause in the hallway.

Eeling.

Or the lack thereof.

There’s a reason she’s been expecting him to show up today even with his history of disappearing. And it isn’t just because he seemed to have more questions for her. It had been something in his eyes when he said he could explain things to her.

Sincerity.

“I believed him,” she says to the empty hallway.

So, is he really gone? She hopes so, because a new idea looms in the dark of her mind. What if he is still hanging around and catches wind of what happened at the local elementary school today? She’s sure it’s the buzz of the town. What if that’s the real reason he didn’t show up? What if he’s decided it’s too salacious not to add to the book? Son of serial killer stabs fellow student: following in the Bedfellow’s footsteps.

The booze curdles in her stomach.

Before she can change course she’s shrugged on the heavy sweater and grabbed her keys. The chill night air is accosting, finding any and all gaps in her clothes as she hurries to the Toyota and climbs in.

She’ll make sure he’s gone. If he is, then all might still be well. If he isn’t . . .

“We’ll come to an understanding,” she says under her breath and pulls out of the yard.

39

He isn’t gone.

The low outline of Eeling’s rental car is there in front of the small house when she pulls to a stop on the side of the county road.

On the ride over she’d run through different scenarios, creating plans of action and corresponding speeches if he hadn’t vacated the premises. Reasoning, threats, whatever it took to make sure he wouldn’t ever publicly connect Julian to Tommy. Except she hadn’t really believed he would still be here.

But he is.

“Fuck,” she whispers, and turns into the drive. The house is dark against the blue-black sky, no lights burning inside. She shuts the Toyota off and sits for a moment in the quiet stillness, running through her options. She’ll feel him out, see if he knows anything about today’s incident, and even if he doesn’t, she’ll make sure he understands Julian and his family are off limits.

In the end she’s holding only one card—the only card that matters. If he won’t agree to her terms, she’ll scrap the interview. Expose his blackmail. Take his story’s crown jewel and smash it.

Then she’ll drive straight to the Crawfords and tell them the truth. She’d rather it come from her than a stranger.

The night gathers around her when she climbs out. It would’ve been nice if Eeling had left at least one outdoor light burning. Now that she thinks about it, it’s fairly early to have gone to bed in the first place. Maybe he went on a bender and passed out. That seems as likely as anything and doesn’t stay her hand from knocking on the door. Hard.

Nothing. No answer.

Hattie knocks again, peering through the small squares of glass set in the door, but all that’s visible is the narrow entryway and part of a washing machine. She hits the doorbell, but no sound comes from inside—at least that she can hear. She considers driving home and coming back in the morning, then tries the knob instead.

Unlocked.

An odd tingle slides through the base of her stomach and is gone almost before she can register it. Maybe Eeling’s one of those trusting souls who never locks his doors. Maybe he’s a young, able-bodied man who’s unafraid of the things the average woman is.

Or maybe he’s a city boy who always locks his doors and this is feeling weird, and you should go.

“Hello?” she calls into the house, ready for a groggy and perhaps drunken response. But there’s nothing. Wait, not nothing.

Music.

An indistinct tinkle somewhere deeper in the house. A little of the tension eases. She calls out again, louder this time, but there’s still no reply. The layout of the house is eerily like she imagined the other night in her daymare when she bashed Eeling’s head in with a rock, and the fact causes another tremor in her lizard brain.

Go home. Come back in the morning. When it’s light.

But by then it may be too late.

She flicks a couple lights on and stops at the juncture of the kitchen and dining room. Eeling’s closed laptop sits on the dining table among a few other items. A shirt hangs off the back of a chair. There’s a weak smell of grilled meat in the air, and sure enough, a plate by the sink with the remains of dinner stuck to it.

Hattie takes this in and goes along a short hall leading to the second-floor stairway where the music filters down from. She calls out twice, then climbs upward.

There is only one room at the top of the stairs and the door is a rectangle of darkness from which the music seeps. At first the tinkling of what she now recognizes as flute was soothing. But with the utter stillness of the house and lack of any other sounds, the notes twist sourly through the air.

“Eeling?” She swallows at the dryness in her throat. “Ross?”

No reply. Not even a rustle of blankets. Either would’ve been welcome. Hattie reaches into the dark, the ancient fear of another hand clutching hers comes and goes as her fingertips brush the light switch and an overhead fixture blooms to life.

The space is square and simple—a rented bedroom if she’s ever seen one. Eeling’s suitcase is open at the foot of the bed, spewing some of its contents onto the floor. There is a chair beside the only window in the east wall, and a door opposite is open to what must be the attached bath.

A manshape lies beneath the covers and one pale arm stretches out over the far side of the bed, palm up.

“Ross,” she repeats, much louder. Because her first intuition was correct—he’s dead drunk. The scent of whiskey would’ve told her all she needed to know without seeing the actual empty bottle on the bedside table. His phone lies beside it emitting the sleep music that carried him off to dreamland.

She’s suddenly angry. Furious. All the compiled rage of the last days twined with the stress of reliving the past comes forward and she can almost feel the rock in her hand again.

“Hey! Wake up!” No response. Not a twitch.

Without another thought she moves around the end of the bed and grasps the covers, whipping them back. “Wake up. I need to talk to y—”

She sees everything at once but her mind parses only pieces at first.

The shocking paleness of his skin.

The seizure-arch of his back.

And the thick plastic bag over his head clouded with condensation of his last breaths, a wide black zip tie cinched around his throat, sealing the bag shut.

Part 4

Prodigal Son

40

Hattie lurches back from the bed with a grunt.

Her legs wobble and give way. She’s expecting the floor but the chair near the window meets her instead. The last of her air escapes and for a long moment she’s not able to draw any more in. All she can do is look and absorb.

Eeling’s face is upturned in the bag, eyes half lidded and stuck in a forever stare. His mouth gapes, tongue lolling out of one corner. A single bead of condensation slowly zigzags down the inside of the bag to collect at his neck. It’s this more than anything that breaks open the enormity of what’s before her.

Dead. He’s dead.

Hattie brings a hand up to her mouth and clamps it there tightly. Whether to keep in a scream or from being sick, she’s not sure. Her entire body’s broken out in goose bumps and sweat—something she would’ve considered impossible before now—and the hand that’s not pressed to her mouth tremors like a weather vane caught in a gale.

She sits that way for a time, letting the horror dissipate as much as it’s going to (which isn’t much) before taking in a deep, steadying breath. Except what she breathes in is whiskey laced with an underlying stench, and she understands she’s smelling the waste that’s leaked from his body.

Sick rises in the back of her throat, and something just out of sight of her mind keeps her from vomiting on the floor between her feet. Evidence, she thinks, then she’s standing and striding toward the door—needing to get the fuck out of this house and away from the corpse of the man she’s spent several of the past days with.

She makes it all the way down the stairs and halfway across the kitchen before slowing, then stopping. She stands very still, letting the full implications wash over her.

Ross Eeling is dead. For reasons unknown, he came back here last night, cooked a steak dinner, then drank enough whiskey to make himself comfortable before pulling a plastic bag over his head and cinching it tight with a zip tie around the throat for good measure.

The idea, which started upstairs and kept her from losing her dinner on the floor, continues to grow. Your fingerprints are in the house now. You pulled back the blanket covering him. And what about his laptop? His work? The notes? At the very least, when this is discovered there’ll be a trail leading directly to you. And that’ll be the end of Mary Whittaker and the beginning of more suffering for everyone. Including Julian. Maybe especially Julian.

She pivots back toward the stairway. The quiet of the house presses in from all sides. The silence of death sounds different, she thinks and steadies herself on the back of a kitchen chair. She has to get the hell out of here before someone spots her car parked in the driveway, but she can’t leave evidence behind either.

Go. Do it fast. Move.

She goes to the dining room table and opens the laptop. Her heart falls from what feels like two stories seeing the sign-in screen. All the incriminating information is locked inside, and the only person who knows the password is upstairs at room temperature.

That’s it, then. She’s screwed. She could take the whole thing, but then the authorities would know someone had been here and they’d dig until they found out who.

A faint inkling of something passes behind her eyes like the shadow of a bird soaring high on a thermal. There and gone. Then she notices the blank button with a round indent in the upper right-hand part of the keyboard.

She hesitates, then carries the computer upstairs, searching the carpeted treads for any indication of her prior footprints. There is none.

Back in the bedroom she halts, stricken by the sight of Eeling’s body again. The smell. What she has to do. Without thinking about it anymore, she rounds the end of the bed and examines Eeling’s extended arm and hand. Turning the laptop awkwardly, she guides it down, tilting it slightly so she can see, and presses the touch ID button to the tip of Eeling’s index finger.

The screen flares and she steps back, heart uppercutting her breastbone. She sits again on the nearby chair. On the laptop a Word document is open, just two words at its very top.

I’m sorry.

She stares for a long second, then minimizes the doc. No more time now to consider the implications. She has to trash the file on Tommy and make sure there aren’t any backups. Make sure all digital traces of her existence are gone. If she can do that, then—

Hattie blinks. She must’ve missed it somehow, but when she looks again it’s the same.

The file is gone from the desktop.

She goes slower through the rest of the folders again, feeling the ticking of seconds like a vise gradually closing on her entire body. She clicks into several other folders, checks the downloads, even runs a search.

Nothing. It’s gone.

Her gaze floats up from the screen, and for one horrible second she’s sure the corpse has moved. Eeling’s head is cocked higher, the eyes now aligning with her own, a knowing glimmer in them. A secret. Then she realizes everything is the same except more condensation has slid down the bag, revealing a greater part of his features, which she could’ve easily done without.

Hattie gives the screen a final look, then expands the suicide note and closes the laptop. When she goes closer to the bed, she notices shallow gouges in the soft flesh of Eeling’s throat where he tried to claw the bag free. A final regret, maybe, or bodily reflex, or . . .

She swallows, tasting some of the death air on the back of her tongue, and flips the blanket back in place, covering the body once more. On the way out of the room, she snaps the light off and swipes the sleeve of her sweater across the switch until she’s sure her prints are gone. The music continues to play from his phone, and she guesses it will go on until the battery dies. Then all will be silent and still.

That gets her moving.

She returns the laptop to the table, wiping it clean the way she did the switch, then retraces her steps through the main floor. What else did she touch? The doorknob. The kitchen chair. Light switches. The blanket covering him. What else? What else?

“Nothing.” She swipes each surface, thinking of how much DNA a person loses just by existing. Skin cells. Hair. Exhaled flecks of saliva. But there’s no way to fully expunge her presence here. And if she doesn’t linger too long, it won’t matter. It will look like exactly what it is. A suicide.

The same fleeting shadow crosses her mind, there and gone.

When she’s sure every surface is clean of her prints, she returns to the entryway and grasps the knob through her sweater sleeve, steps outside, and begins pulling the door shut behind her. Everything’s wiped down. And as a bonus, no cars have come by since she’s arrived. The community’s small enough that most people could put a name to a vehicle.

A name.

She stops as the door touches the jamb, eyes widening, stomach swooping as if she’s stepped off a stair into nothing. She goes back inside, pulse climbing once more. She’s loath to turn on the lights again, but she has to, can’t see without them, and she has to find it. Cannot leave without it.

The blackmail envelope is in the first place she looks—Eeling’s workbag he brought both days he came to her place. She doesn’t even have to unzip it; it’s poking out from a side pocket, big as day. Her throat constricts at the sight of the Crawfords’ name scrawled across the front. If she thought the laptop was incriminating . . .

With the envelope tucked away in her pocket, she leaves the house, rubbing the doorknob briskly with her sweater on the way out. Still no cars, but she can hear one coming far off down the county lane.

Dreamlike, she reverses out to the road and shifts into drive, giving the house a fleeting glance as she speeds away, the ghostly sound of flutes following her through the dark.

41

Sleep won’t come.

Hattie lies on her side looking out the window toward the sea. The belly of a crescent moon hangs low and orange over the water. The tide is out and there’s no wind—the only stirrings in her mind.

She counted the vehicles she passed returning from Eeling’s rented house (there were four), attempting to calculate the odds of someone recognizing her Toyota. Then she was home, relief a physical thing, and with it came gouging hunger. She guessed it was the adrenaline receding as she opened the fridge, thinking of the last two slices of pizza. But when she saw them in their plastic bag, Eeling’s lifeless eyes swam through hazy condensation in the gutter of her mind, and she turned to dry heave at the sink, hunger turning inside out. Afterward, exhaustion draped itself across her so heavily she barely made it to bed in time, only to lie awake in mockery of how tired she was.

Now she clutches the blankets to her chest, studying the empty side of the bed. Ed’s side of the bed. She wishes him there more than anything so she could talk about what she’d just seen. Share the burden of whipping back the covers and—

She rolls away from the window and closes her eyes, adding another dimension to the dark. But it only provides a backdrop to what she saw in the house. She’s only seen one other dead person besides Ed and that was her grandfather in his casket when she was a child. Death hadn’t seemed like such an adversary then, more like a state of being, as living was. Only later did she understand its antithesis. Its cold finality. Its aching love gone. But even Ed’s sudden departure doesn’t hold the unnatural rawness of Eeling’s suicide.

If that’s what it was.

There. The thing she’s been sidestepping from the moment she left the house moves fully into the light. The fluttering shadow of doubt about what she’d actually witnessed. Because the same reason she expected Eeling to return this morning is why his death feels so incongruous.

She believed he was coming back.

“You didn’t know him at all,” she says without opening her eyes. And if the last eight years of her life have taught her anything, it’s that no one person can really know another. Not really.

She sifts through what little time she spent with Eeling, sorting possible motives. The biggest is the phone call he took while she fumbled through emailing herself his work. With a gun to her head, she’d say it was a wife or ex-wife calling, the topic of course the most powerful of any weapon in a crumbling relationship—a child.

Could things have been so bad that even the passion he seemed to possess about the project wasn’t enough to offset the appeal of an early out? Sure. Did she believe that?

It doesn’t matter what you believe, it’s what you saw.

And what had she seen? A suicide, or a murder made to look like one?

A detail from what seemed to be Eeling’s most-read article comes back to her then. It was concerning the death of a whistleblower who’d been at the center of a major political corruption story. He’d been found dead in a hotel bathtub, asphyxiated by a plastic bag, his blood alcohol level sky high. Yet Eeling had asked the same question in the article she was asking herself now—suicide or murder?

She releases a long sigh and climbs out of bed, shrugging into her sweater. In the kitchen, she heats water for tea she doesn’t want, letting her thoughts unspool as she pulls a cup from the cupboard.

Maybe the simplest explanation is the correct one—while making a desperate attempt to refresh his career, a washed-up journalist going through marital strife loses his will to carry on and takes his own life utilizing a method he’d reported on in a prior story.

Or someone could’ve read the same article you did and used the method for morbid congruence.

She has to admit, there are only so many ways to make a murder look like a suicide without raising suspicion. Asphyxiation is one, especially given Eeling’s drinking habits. She can imagine someone sneaking into the house while he was sleeping, creeping up the stairs to his room, slipping the bag over his head, and cinching the zip tie tight. Depending on how intoxicated he was, Eeling might not have even fought that hard.

But if he wasn’t suicidal (a huge if), then why would someone kill him and go to the trouble of making it look as if he was?

The same reason the whistleblower in Eeling’s article was murdered. To stop him. Stop the work he was doing. Why else?

But he was just writing another book about a serial killer who’s had a dozen or more books written about him. What was so special about this one? Let’s just say no one’s written about Tommy like I am. That could’ve been ego talking.

Then why were the files gone from his laptop?

Maybe he decided to clean house on a project he wasn’t ever going to finish and deleted them before checking out.

Or someone else did.

The kettle whistles. When she’s poured the tea, she sits at the table, warming her hands around the cup, letting her gaze grow hazy as she considers who would want to stop Eeling from publishing his book.

Besides you, you mean.

She scoffs at that. She’s not capable of violence. Yes, she’s imagined doing terrible things in her fugue states but—

Her mouth is dry and tastes maddeningly of stale wine she drank hours ago. A buzzing numbness has invaded her fingers. No, not numbness. Cold.

Cold. Cold. She was cold last night, waking up on the porch. What if she hadn’t just sleepwalked her way outside?

What if she was coming back? From Eeling’s?

Impossible. There’s no way she left her place, drove there, suffocated Eeling, and made her way back home without knowing it. It’s insane.

Then why did the layout of the house seem familiar?

Because—she imagined it that way. The excuse is thin enough to see through. But the notion that she’s in any way responsible for his death is unfathomable. She’s never lost control like that—

Never say never. Remember the bathtub?

She shakes her head as if to dislodge the voice from her ears. She’s not going to think about that right now. Can’t.

And don’t you have zip ties just like the one around his neck out in the shed?

Sure. And so do half the other people in the county. Still, she inspects her hands and arms, looking for cuts or bruises without admitting what she’s doing. There are no blemishes on her skin, and she definitely would have sustained some kind of injury attempting to suffocate a grown man, intoxicated or not.

This gives her some reassurance. Yes, she’s slipped away into the recesses of her mind before, but she’s never done anything even remotely horrific like that. Not like—

Tommy. Not like what he did.

Hattie’s stomach rolls when she tries taking a sip of tea. She dumps it down the sink, then goes to the den and stirs the stove’s embers, tossing in a fresh log. Clouds have obscured the moon, and the darkness pressing on the other side of the windows is a solid thing.

Eeling was a blackmailing bastard. Someone willing to blow up people’s lives to get what he wanted. People like that could just as easily implode. Anything could have happened between the time he left her place and when the bag went over his head. And if his drinking was any indication . . .

As she puts her hands in her sweater pockets, something crinkles in the right one, startling her.

She brings out the envelope with the Crawfords’ name across the front. “Exhibit fucking A,” she says. She’d completely forgotten about the letter on the way home, but now righteous anger flares at the sight of it.

Hattie rips open the envelope and unfolds the paper inside. She stares at the letter attempting to process what she’s seeing before turning it over several times, but the result is the same no matter what.

The page is completely blank.

42

When Wendy opens the front door, Hattie guesses the other woman got about as much sleep as she did the night before. There are dark half circles beneath her eyes and her hair is in uncharacteristic disarray. She gives Hattie a wan smile and ushers her inside.

The Crawfords’ house is still and quiet. It reminds her of her own place after Ed’s wake, when everyone had given their condolences and said their goodbyes and gone home. It feels like mourning.

Kevin sits at the dining room table outlined against the big windows facing the bay. The weather is cold but clear, and the Atlantic, as well as the sky above, is keenly blue. He nods at her as she comes in and takes a seat across from him. Without asking, Wendy brings her coffee, refilling her husband’s as well as her own mug. Hattie glances over one shoulder at the loft.

“Still asleep,” Kevin says. “Checked on him a minute ago.”

“He had trouble going down,” Wendy says, sinking into a chair. “We all did.”

Kevin clears his throat. “Mary, I’m sorry for the other night. I should have listened. You were trying to help, and more importantly, you were right.”

She thinks trying to help is always more important than being right, but maybe that’s the lawyer in him. “It’s okay. I probably overstepped my bounds.”

Kevin’s gaze recedes. “We’ve been going over it and over it. I never thought Jules was capable of something like this.”

Hattie hears herself in his voice. Hears every parent who’s had to wake up each morning confronted by something their child has done. “He was defending himself.”

“That’s exactly why he’s sleeping upstairs and not in some juvie bunk bed right now. That other . . . kid almost drowned him.” Kevin’s hands ball into fists, then relax. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” She sips her coffee. “So, what’s the status of everything?”

“Julian’s suspended until further notice,” Wendy says. “And so is Bastion, given the history of bullying.”

“What about the administration? They definitely have some culpability here,” Hattie says.

“Oh, the principal’s in major hot water,” Kevin says. “The fact he caved to Bastion’s parents and let the kid back in before his suspension was up is going to be a significant factor. They’re going to throw the principal right under the bus for this one.”

“And on the legal front?”

Kevin reaches out and takes Wendy’s hand. “We don’t know yet. It could be bad. If it were just two kids fighting and one of them got hurt, it would be different. But the scissors will be considered a deadly weapon.”

An image of Ed’s wood awl, slick with blood, flashes through her mind, and she shoulders it aside. “Wendy said you’ve talked to some therapists?”

Kevin nods. “We’ve got an appointment this afternoon with a child psychologist who works closely with the court. Hopefully she’s a good fit, and we’ll go from there.” He rubs his free hand across the short stubble of his cheek, which is normally so smooth. “You know, even with the bullying we never told him to fight back. Not with his fists, anyway. I see people every day at work who fight back physically, and it almost never ends well for them. We taught him if there was a problem to come to us or talk to a teacher and it would be taken care of. He did that and we failed him.” Kevin hesitates. “He was carrying those scissors around for almost a week—hid them in his desk at the end of each day. He’s never hurt anything or anyone, but he was ready to hurt that kid. He—”

Wendy squeezes his hand and sits straighter, glancing up and over Hattie’s head. “Good morning, honey.”

Julian stands at the loft’s railing, looking down at them, his expression blank. Hattie wonders how long he’s been awake. “Morning,” he says.

“Are you hungry?” Wendy asks. Julian shakes his head. “How about some juice?” A shrug. “Why don’t you get dressed and come on down?” He disappears back in his room, and Wendy says in a low voice, “We have a call with our attorney in fifteen minutes. Do you think you could take Jules outside for a while?”

The familiar warmth blossoms at being trusted with him, but it’s cooled by apprehension. She gives them the best smile she can. “Of course.”

43

They walk along the southern edge of the cove until there is nothing but rocks and trees on one side and the ocean on the other.

Julian stays a short distance in front of her, nimble feet skipping from rock to rock, his head down. At the kitchen table, he drank his juice in silence and donned his jacket and shoes without comment when Wendy said Hattie was going to take him for a walk. He hasn’t said a word since they left the house. Hasn’t looked her in the eye.

They come to a point where the shoreline juts out in a short peninsula before continuing on in a straight southern line. Much farther down, a man stands near the water, throwing tennis balls for two Labs. The sea shimmers brightly and the wind comes steadily from the north.

Julian goes to the end of the point and sits on a flat-topped stone. Hattie finds a suitable seat nearby and lowers herself onto it. Gulls coast overhead on drafts, wings motionless. A gray seal surfaces a hundred yards out, then submerges just as quickly. She’s trying to figure out what to say, sure she’ll be the one who has to start, when Julian surprises her by speaking first. “They wanted me to leave so they could talk about what happened.”

It’s not a question, but she answers anyway. “Yes. They have some calls to make.”

He grinds the heels of his shoes in some loose grit. “Am I going to jail?”

“No,” she says too quickly. “They don’t send little boys to jail.” They send big boys to jail. Big boys who kill women and lie in bed with them afterward.

He cocks his head at her. “Juvie, then.”

“Did you overhear your mom and dad talking?”

A half nod.

“They’re going to work this out.”

He looks away. “Are you mad at me?”

“No. I’m not mad.”

“They are.”

“No, they’re not mad either. They’re upset about what happened. Are you?” she adds.

He turns to study her. “If you aren’t mad, what are you, then?”

Afraid. I’m afraid. “I’m worried.” He watches her, unmoving. No change in expression. No tears. He doesn’t seem like a little boy then; he’s more like an adult in miniature. “Do you want to talk about what happened?” He looks away again. “It’s all right. You can tell me. Or your mom and dad.”

“They’re not my mom and dad. Not really.”

She’s struck silent. Kevin and Wendy had explained Julian’s adoption to him almost two years ago. He’d digested it as he did every other piece of information—with a quiet thoughtfulness. In the end he’d simply accepted it as fact and hadn’t mentioned it again, as far as she knew, until now. “They love you very much. You know that, don’t you?”

Julian stares out at the water, motionless and unblinking. A breeze gusts past them and Hattie tugs the neck of her coat tighter. There’s the threat of frost in the air, but that’s not what chills her.

“I’m not sorry,” Julian says.

Then he stands and begins picking his way back along the cove’s edge.

44

Hattie trails farther behind him as if the distance will insulate her thoughts. As if he can hear them.

It’s a disturbing, nonsensical idea. There’s nothing supernatural about him—just unnatural. She watches her grandson move along the rocks, hating the thought. Hating that she’s starting to believe it. Julian’s long hair is windblown, trailing across his pale forehead and over his ears. She searches him again, as she has a thousand times since moving in next door, as if to find some damning or exonerating quality. Except this time she’s afraid she’s seeing what she’s always feared.

Near the end of Tommy’s trial she began reading about serial killers. Not the cheap and gaudy titles promising grisly details of the crimes, but the measured and focused biographies of the people who became monsters. She wasn’t so much interested in what they had done, but who they had been before they had done it.

Because every monster had once been someone’s child.

There were certain hallmarks the so-called experts had agreed upon—mainly the presence of childhood abuse, as well as the torture and killing of animals. There had also been several references to asocial behavior and vivid fantasizing.

When her denial began to fade, she tried viewing Tommy’s childhood through a cold, analytical lens. An honest one. There had been no abuse—she would have known, either through her own intuition or the training she’d received to recognize the signs as a mandated reporter. And there’d never been any indication of animal cruelty either; Tommy had loved animals in general. But the quiet reservation—that was another story. His internal distance had simply been part of him growing up, but looking back, it could have harbored all kinds of terrible longings.

And she wonders if those things trickled down the genetic line to the boy skipping from stone to stone ahead of her. When it comes to nature versus nurture, she’s not sure which holds sway in the arena of violence, but the flatness in Julian’s last words were enough to unsettle her.

I’m not sorry.

Of course, he could just be a bullied kid who’s had enough and has finally gotten back at the tormentor making his school life hell. That, she could forgive if not condone.

Her head aches.

The day has only brightened, but none of the light penetrates her mood. Eeling’s face inside the deathbag continues to revolve behind her eyes. Her worry simmers. Julian’s gotten a good way ahead of her, almost back even with the Crawfords’ home, and is kneeling over something on the shoreline. She could offer him a cup of cocoa at her place, but when she looks at her watch she sees they’ve been gone well over an hour. Plenty of time for Kevin and Wendy to make their calls. And it won’t be long before they’ll have to leave for the appointment with the psychiatrist.

“Jules, we probably should go in. Your mom and dad have—”

Her voice dies as she comes even with him and sees what he’s doing.

A seagull lies squirming on its back, its beak open and gasping silently as Julian digs a sharpened stick through its center, impaling it to the rock below. One of its yellow eyes stares widely up at her through agony as Julian twists the stick deeper into its guts.

Hattie moves reflexively. Her hand latches on to his upper arm and yanks him upward as hard as she can. He comes up easily, as if he’s filled with helium, and his face snaps toward hers, features crimped with surprise and fear.

“What are you doing?” she yells, jerking his arm again, pulling him away from the dying bird.

“I was just . . . I was . . .”

“What? What?”

“I was just looking.”

Hattie opens her mouth to yell something else, something to encompass the horror that’s swallowing her, but then she looks at the gull again.

It’s not squirming anymore. Well, portions of it are.

The gull is dead and has been for some time. Who knows what killed it, but it wasn’t a stick through its center. Bugs writhe amid its feathers and a few crawl out of its empty eye socket.

Hattie looks from the dead bird to her grandson. He’s staring up at her and there’s a slight tremble to his jaw. The stick dangling from his hand is thin and blunt.

“What’s going on?”

Wendy moves toward them across the yard, brow furrowed. Hattie releases her grip on Julian’s arm and he takes a step back, rubbing the place where her hand was.

“Sorry,” she whispers, unsure who she’s speaking to. “Sorry,” she says again, voice gaining some strength as Wendy nears and puts her hands on Julian’s shoulders.

“What is it?” Wendy asks, looking to her first, then Julian.

“The bird. I didn’t want him to touch it.” Wendy notices the gull, then the stick in Julian’s hand. She gently takes it from him and tosses it aside.

“Mary’s right, honey. You shouldn’t touch dead things. They have germs.” He continues to stare at Hattie before finally looking away. “Let’s go in and wash your hands,” Wendy says, mouthing thanks as they start for the house. She watches them move up the hill. Julian glances over his shoulder only once.

But once is enough to see the fear hasn’t left his eyes.

45

The bottle of pills isn’t in the medicine cabinet—it’s long gone, but she looks anyway.

There is aspirin and ibuprofen. Antacids and Band-Aids. Rubbing alcohol and aloe. But no risperidone. Never any antipsychotic meds when you need them. She shuts the cabinet doors and avoids her reflection before checking the small cupboard over the toilet just in case. Nothing. She must have thrown them out at some point—hadn’t needed them anymore since the daymares had tapered off and stopped on their own.

Not on their own. Because you came here and started a new life. Yes, that was why. Mostly it had to do with the boy next door. Ironic now that they’re beginning again partially because of him.

Hattie sits on the closed toilet seat and puts her face in her hands. The image of the gull is still there when she closes her eyes so she keeps them open. But she saw it, there’s no denying that. Hallucinated it. Worse than seeing something that wasn’t real was the look of distrust on Julian’s face. That was real. And she caused it.

It was her line of thinking beforehand. The precursors of serial killers—the torture of animals. That’s what had been boiling around in her subconscious so that’s what she’d seen. In reality Julian had been poking at a dead bird. Not exactly nice, but not an uncommon way for kids to become acquainted with death. And she’d lost it on him. Frightened him.

“Damn it,” she whispers, and lets her hands fall from her face.

She goes to leave the bathroom but pauses in the doorway. She stares at the bathtub, feeling a tug of memory that’s been stalking her since finding Eeling. She’s a little surprised she hasn’t thought of it sooner since it was the very first of her daymares—the thing that finally forced her to see a therapist. It boils up from the darkest well of her heart and it takes all her willpower not to shut it out, not to run.

Let it in. Let it hurt.

She takes a breath and does.

It was a few days after Ed’s funeral while a police cruiser was still stationed outside their house in case Tommy decided to try coming home.

She’d taken to sitting near the big windows looking out at their yard and the county road beyond. Not that she was really seeing the splendor of fall or the occasional car going by, or the resurgence of news vans following Ed’s death and Tommy’s escape.

It was all lost on her.

A cocoon of sorts had wound itself around her, muffling things from the outside world. Everything was dull and distant. She was aware of this and thankful for it. Had her thoughts already turned to Ed’s gun case and the combination which opened it? Yes, of course they had. She’d been thinking of the handgun almost every hour since the paramedics pronounced Ed in his shop. I’ll join him, she’d thought dozens of times over the last week. If there’s something after this, he’ll be there. And maybe all the pain and confusion of this life will fall away and become unimportant. Or at least make some kind of sense. It was a nice thought but didn’t ring with much truth. She more or less believed if (when) she put the gun barrel in her mouth and squeezed the trigger there would be a flash of heat then . . . nothing. Exactly like what preceded her very first memory as a child.

But most nights while she lay awake in her newly empty bed, even that seemed better than this.

Really what she was waiting for was Tommy’s capture. Or death. It was an almost certainty he’d be caught soon—Detective Ramsby had assured her of this—but how it would play out remained to be seen. He wouldn’t come home, she knew that much. Would he be taken without incident or go down fighting? And if her only child, murderer or not, was killed in the apprehension, her last decision would be made for her.

She would not live in a world without hope.

Somewhere near dusk she came free of her stupor and knew she should eat. Food and water no longer held even the slightest appeal, but without them she would soon be too weak to follow through on her suicide. In a way she remained living so she could die.

Hattie ate a small piece of lasagna warmed in the microwave—the dish a gift from some well-meaning friend—without tasting it. At the table she glanced at the paperwork that had arrived from the life insurance company earlier in the day. It seemed Ed had taken out an extra policy on himself a few years ago without her knowing. She guessed it had something to do with turning the same age his father had died at, but more so with the financial hardship he and his family had suffered afterward. The number on the paper was astonishingly large, yet it carried no meaning. What use was money now?

You could take a cruise. It was the first time she’d heard Ed’s voice in her mind and she’d chuckled at the thought. The dry wit, which was all him. The chuckle became a rush of giggles, which became a fit of laughter. She laughed until tears ran from the corners of her eyes, and she couldn’t tell when she began to cry instead.

Gradually she quieted. Crying, she’d realized, became like any other activity when repeated enough: a task needing to be accomplished so you could go on to what was next. And what was next was folding and putting away the towels that were in the dryer.

As she placed a stack of towels in the upstairs bathroom cabinet a memory so clean and vivid arose, she was at its mercy before she knew what was happening.

The bathtub below the window was where she’d given Tommy his baths as a child. He’d loved bathtime. Almost every night she would have to coax him out with the promise of a pre-bed snack, and even then, it was a wrangle. She saw him there now as a four-year-old boy, eyes alight as he glided toy boats and submarines through the water around him. No hint of what the future would bring, only a boy playing in his bath.

But it would happen. He would grow to become a killer of women.

A fresh tear slipped from one eye as she watched him in the water. She could stop it if she was brave. If she was willing to sacrifice what she loved most. If she were willing to destroy a part of herself.

Then she was kneeling by the bathtub, hands reaching and wrapping around Tommy’s thin throat. A look of surprise crossed his face before she pressed him under and held him there as he thrashed. A half scream broke from her—the sound pure animalistic pain. This was the only way to stop him, to save his victims, to save Ed, to save herself, to save him.

She held him there until Tommy quit struggling and the bathwater settled. His eyes, so full of life less than two minutes ago, were vacant and staring.

The light changed and Hattie released another scream before seeing the tub was dry and empty. Her hands were wringing a towel from the stack she’d brought upstairs. It wasn’t then, it was now.

She dropped the towel and staggered away from the tub, falling to her knees, then scrambling backward until her spine bumped the wall. She sat there sobbing into one hand, unsure if it had happened. Unsure if she’d killed her son as a child knowing what he would become or if he’d lived and gone on to end four other lives. Unsure which was worse.

There was a flit of movement outside the window and a shadow of wings, there and gone. The owl, of course. Watching again. Seeing. Hattie’s sobs became a painful thing living in her chest and stomach, eating its way out. She placed both hands over her eyes and wished for it all to end. For none of it to have ever happened at all.

She sits in a similar position now in the cottage bathroom—her back against the wall, tears stinging her eyes. That first time she thought she was losing her mind, and she was probably right. The stress and trauma had created a mental schism for all sorts of horrific things to slip through. It had taken years of therapy and medication alongside sheer will to finally leave the daymares behind.

But now they’re back.

Hattie draws her knees to her chest and lowers her forehead to them. She stays that way for a long time listening to the ocean mutter and her heart plod on, one beat after another.

46

When she wakes it’s dark and she has no idea where she is.

For a second she worries she’s caught in another nightmare, but then she feels the hard press of tiles beneath her palm and the pain in every joint as she sits up. Somehow, she fell asleep on the bathroom floor. Deeply asleep. It was maybe four in the afternoon when she drifted off and now it’s—she checks her phone—after nine.

It takes several trips back and forth between the fridge and the stove for her body to limber up. But the soreness lingers like a hangover. It’s hell to get old. Despite the stiffness and disturbing trip down memory lane, she’s hungry. Ravenous. She chops an onion and two bell peppers while browning a pound of ground turkey. Mixes it all together with a healthy dose of stir fry sauce and dumps it over some boiled noodles. She eats leaning against the counter because she’s afraid if she sits down she won’t get back up again.

She checks her phone and sees Wendy sent a text earlier in the evening. Meeting with psych went good. J seemed to like her. Call tomorrow if you get time. Hattie likes the message and says she’ll touch base with her in the morning. It’s meager good news but she’ll take it.

After she’s done the few dishes from dinner, she goes to the den. The fire’s out and the stove is cold as a corpse. Once the fire’s going she studies it as it lights up the stove’s interior. A gust of wind comes in off the ocean and flattens itself against the windows, making them flex in their frames, but they hold. As brittle and transparent as they are, they do their job. Which brings to mind the therapist who gave her the courage to let the worst thoughts and feelings in. She had told her something else in one of their last sessions that had resonated.

Sometimes it will feel like you’re not in control, and that can be scary. But whenever you have that feeling always remember that you’re never truly helpless. Look for what you can do. There’s always something.

What can she do?

It comes to her almost at once.

47

The fear that the email she sent herself from Eeling’s laptop won’t be there surges as she scans her inbox and doesn’t see it, but in her haste, she managed to scroll past it accidentally.

A tingle of anticipation flows across her skin as she opens the file, revealing its many folders. Just as quickly she’s reminded that the man responsible for the work is lying dead half a dozen miles away and she’s the only one who knows it. She disliked Eeling for what he’d done (though the blank paper in the envelope says he was bluffing about actually ruining her life) but he was still a human being—flawed and vulnerable like everyone else.

The files seem to be organized by names and she’s unsurprised to see she knows most of them. There is Dustin and Leah, Colm and Detective Ramsby, as well as her own. She also recognizes the names of Tommy’s five victims, the sight of them still setting off a depth charge of guilt and sorrow in her center. But there are others such as Ginger Beckem, Jollette Smith, Elle Marks, and Isle Cuthbert, which are completely foreign.

Where to begin?

A folder near the top left of the file catches her eye. Introduction. A fitting place to start if there ever was one. Inside the folder are two items, one being a voice memo and the other a Word doc. She settles on the audio file and hits play, leaning back in the big chair with her computer balanced on her knees.

There’s a brief pause, then Eeling’s voice comes out of her laptop’s speakers louder than expected. It’s like he’s sitting across from her in the dark. A rash of goose bumps crawls down her arms and legs.

We all want to know why. Understanding something is overcoming our fear of it. Becoming one step closer to ruling it. And it’s a common misconception applied to murder. Because sometimes there is no understanding what causes an individual to end another’s life. We might be able to point to some source, but does that really explain the will it takes to commit such a horrendous crime? And for a subject such as a serial murderer, can we ever truly know what drives not only their actions, but the pleasure or satisfaction derived from the acts themselves?

This is the basis of countless true crime novels, podcasts, and movies. If you are looking for bloody descriptions of crime scenes and meticulous details of a killer’s depravities, stop reading now.

You will not find that here.

Hattie sits forward in spite of herself.

In the following pages you will come to understand the illusion created by horrific acts and how a monster hid behind them. You will glimpse the darkness of doubt that resides in all of us, waiting to step forward and point a finger. You will encounter lies and deceit unlike anything you’ve ever known before.

There’s a series of muffled thumps that sound like footsteps, followed by a young boy’s voice.

Daddy?

Hey, pal, what are you doing up? Thought you were asleep?

I had a bad dream.

Come here.

More footsteps and the rasp of clothing. She can imagine the little boy on Eeling’s phone screen climbing onto his father’s lap. Something he will never do again.

Want to tell me about it?

No. Too scary.

Talking about things makes them less scary.

A gap of silence.

When are you coming home?

Another quiet beat. Eeling clears his throat.

I’m not sure yet, champ.

Because you and Mommy are getting a divorce.

We’re not sure about that yet either. A pause. Was that what your dream was about?

No. A monster was chasing me.

Oh. Well, there’s no such thing as monsters.

Really?

Really, really.

Promise.

I promise. Here, let’s have a drink of water and get back in bed. It’s late and Daddy’s got more work to do.

Their footsteps recede along with their voices and are replaced by the dim hum of an empty room. It’s eerie in its own right and she finds herself listening for any noises that might be out of place. The shift of clothing or the creak of a door. Then footsteps come back and a chair squeaks.

Okay, Eeling says. What the fuck was I saying? Right. You won’t get any of that here because this is not a typical killer’s biography. It’s a mission.

What you will get is a viewpoint held by few and expressed by none. You will get a unique take on the Bedfellow Killer from someone immersed in his world.

There are three particular aspects that I will explore extensively through personal in-depth interviews with close family and friends of both victims and perpetrator who have never before gone on record.

There’s another long pause, which she guesses is for dramatic effect. It’s somewhat effective.

The first is that Thomas Edwin Conlee was accused and convicted of four counts of murder in the first degree with a possible fifth victim that remains unsubstantiated. The second is his escape from custody, and to this day, his continued elusion from capture.

And last, that Thomas Conlee is innocent. And I intend to prove it.

48

Doubt is hell’s currency.

An English professor said this in Hattie’s junior year of college and it was one of those quotes that ingrained itself in the mind. Every so often it would stand up and announce itself, sometimes out of the blue, sometimes appropriately.

Like now.

The months between Tommy’s arrest and conviction were filled with not knowing. The first tendril of doubt on the night of his arrest grew slowly but steadily until it formed a root system binding her to a truth she couldn’t escape.

But in the most elegant of ironies, when she’d committed to the fact her son was a serial murderer there was the continual nagging uncertainty in the other direction. What if I’m wrong? What if everyone is? What if he’s innocent?

She’d placated these thoughts just as she’d fought off their opposites at the beginning of the ordeal. Because once committed, the mind does everything to prove its position. Right or wrong.

Hattie realizes she’s been sitting in the dark listening to nothing for a long time. Eeling’s introduction is over, and when she looks at the Word doc file under the same heading, it’s just a transcription of the audio minus the aside with his son.

She shuts the laptop and stares at the fire, which has burned down considerably. The den is cozily warm, but there’s little comfort in it. She’s very thirsty and goes to the kitchen for some water. Stands drinking it at the sink.

Eeling thought he was breaking new ground, but he was only treading old paths she and Ed and their lawyer Billy Wescot had walked smooth in their belief of Tommy’s innocence. They had turned over every rock, asked every question, tried every tack to prove he hadn’t committed the crimes he was accused of, and in the end they’d all come up empty.

In the end they’d found only guilt.

As Hattie puts the glass in the dishwasher and starts it, she huffs a laugh. So this was Eeling’s big original idea? That Tommy was innocent, and the real killer framed him? As if they hadn’t explored that very notion to its borders and back. The problem had been the DNA evidence, which Billy had argued could have been there naturally since Tommy and Cheryl had been intimate in the recent past. But with the murder weapon and bloodstained T-shirt found in his apartment alongside Tommy’s own admission that he couldn’t remember what had occurred, the prosecution had collapsed the framing defense like a rotted shack in a hurricane. It was such a dead end at one point Billy had suggested they switch tactics and offer a plea deal to avoid a potential death sentence. The State of Pennsylvania didn’t employ capital punishment, but the governor was up for reelection that year and had floated the idea of bringing it back specifically for Tommy’s conviction.

No. Tommy had done what he’d been accused of. To harbor doubt was to admit not only a horrific miscarriage of justice, but more importantly that she’d forsaken her only child.

She won’t consider it. She can’t.

What she should do is delete Eeling’s files and erase the digital trail as much as she can in case law enforcement comes calling. She brings her laptop into the kitchen to do just that, even has the cursor over the “Delete” button, but hesitates.

Maybe you’ll understand in the end. Maybe you’ll even thank me.

Reluctantly she opens the internet browser to reread the articles Eeling wrote for different news organizations. After an hour passes she begrudgingly admits what she’s known all along: He was actually a very good crime journalist. No, that’s not fair. He was great. His writing is crisp and concise, and there’s a level of care to how he approached the stories. She has a little difficulty aligning this with how he barged into her life along with those of the people she loves, but then recalls the tenderness with which he comforted his son after a bad dream and knows people are endlessly surprising. They’re maybe something Sloan would call the greatest mystery of all.

She releases a long breath and looks at the time. It’s well after midnight but she isn’t tired. Just the opposite. She could run a marathon.

She brews herself a cup of coffee instead, and with what feels like unlocking the clasp of Pandora’s box, starts to sift through the audio files.

Near dawn, everything changes.

49

Her senior year of high school she’d been in a car accident and gotten a concussion.

She’d been riding shotgun in her boyfriend’s vehicle, an old Chrysler Cordoba with no muffler and definitely no airbags. It had been deep December in Pennsylvania, and they’d hit an icy patch coming around a corner too fast and slid off the road. An ancient oak had stopped their momentum abruptly, and just like that Hattie’s view of the world had sparked brightly, then fallen to black as if a curtain had dropped over everything.

She’d woken in the hospital to a room of people she didn’t know, and for a brief period of time, hadn’t known who she was either. The unmoored confusion had been a fresh kind of hell amid the pain in her head, and only later did she realize how tenuous a grasp on reality people had. How everything could shift in an instant and nothing would ever be the same again.

She feels the same way now.

She sits on the front porch despite the morning cold. A light jacket she barely recalls grabbing is draped over her shoulders. She stares across the empty yard, early sun glinting on every blade of grass—overnight frost melted to a million jewels of light.

The fresh air hasn’t brought any clarity. She’s still marooned in shock. Everything looks new and alien. Hattie shivers and flexes her hands, which are stiffening from the cold and arthritis. She stands a little unsteadily and goes back inside, eyeing her open laptop on the table for a moment before sliding into the seat before it.

The audio file, which is over two hours long, is still on the screen. She began it around three in the morning, finally feeling the pull of sleep and telling herself she would only listen to some of it before going to bed, but she’d been enraptured after fifteen minutes. And near its very end she’d been sideswiped as in high school, this time by a confession instead of an oak tree.

She drags the progress bar back and hits play. Detective Ramsby’s voice croaks from the speakers once more.

—knew someone like you would eventually turn up. They always do.

There’s a hint of amusement in Eeling’s response.

Someone like me?

Yeah, some jackal sniffing around for a bite. I hated you fucking people when I was on the job. Always getting in the way and making difficult work even harder.

She’s struck again by how different Ramsby sounds from the last time she spoke to him about the calls from Tommy. There had always been a gruffness to his voice—no doubt the result of smoking a pack a day for decades—but the recording is the rasp of a dying man.

So it’s really ironic to say I’m glad you called.

I’m glad you answered and agreed to the interview. The background’s been extremely helpful.

Yeah, all that’s all fine and good, but that’s not your bite. I’ve had a few reporters ask me questions about the Bedfellow, but I’ve never told anyone what I’m about to tell you.

Okay, well, thank you. I’m honored.

Don’t have nothing to do with you, my friend. You’re just—what do they call it in books . . . an opportunistic turn of events.

Ramsby erupts into a coughing fit that sounds as if several crucial things inside him are in the process of coming apart. They probably are. When the fit subsides, he continues.

Fucking COPD. But that ain’t accurate. Fucking cigarettes is more like it. But then who lit them day in and out? We usually undo ourselves, one way or another. No one likes to admit it, but hey, I’m at the end so what else I got to lose?

On the first listen Hattie felt a flash of sympathy for the man who she’d always detested on an unspoken level. Knowing what comes next has crushed that cinder of pity dark.

Which is why you’re here. I want to get this off my chest. Not because I really feel any sense of guilt because I don’t. It’s not cut and dried like that, see? It’s just this spot of doubt that’s needling me. Has been since I retired. Like a fucking fly in your bowl of cereal you can’t get out no matter how hard you try.

I understand.

No, you don’t. No one but police would get what I’m talking about. This job . . . it takes something inside you to do it, and it takes something out of you too. That’s the trade-off I guess. And I’d say it’s a good trade for the most part. Some of the guys I knew, they’d disagree. Most of them drank themselves to death or ate their gun. It does that to you. You see shit day in and out no human being should have to look at, but if the drive’s there to try and stop more of it from happening or at least bring the fuckers to justice who’re causing it, you can keep putting your shoes on every morning. Until you can’t.

Another weak spell of coughing, then Ramsby goes on.

Whitney Moorhead, the Bedfellow’s first victim—God I hate those fucking nicknames they give them—was a cute little gal. Lived an hour or so outside of Philly in a town called Lancaster. She was an RN. Everyone loved her—parents, brothers, friends, employers, patients. Couldn’t find someone to say a bad word about her. That’s common for the dead—someone passes and they suddenly become fucking saints. But Whitney—people genuinely liked her. She was a good one.

I interviewed her older brother. Her death broke him. He’s been in and out of rehab since it happened.

Yeah, the collateral damage isn’t something you ever get used to. A violent death is like radiation—seeps into everyone involved. Eats ’em from the inside out.

There’s a long pause with only the sound of a fan in the background.

Transparency’s key in investigations, but a big part of the job’s withholding too. You come upon something, and you keep it back so the perp doesn’t know how close you are. Also helps weed out the wackos who get off on confessing or messing with the victims’ families.

Is that pretty common?

More than you think. Anyway, there was one piece of evidence we withheld from the Moorhead case. Something only a few of us knew about. Lead forensic tech found a hair on the bed where the sonofabitch laid down after he fucking trepanned that lady’s head. We cross-checked it with everyone who had access to her place, as well as all known suspects. No match.

I don’t remember the prosecution linking any DNA from one of the other crime scenes to Conlee during the trial.

That’s because the DNA didn’t match.

The trapdoor in her stomach reopens like the first time she listened to the recording.

Didn’t match?

Nope.

That means—

All it means is that someone we didn’t have on record was in Moorhead’s bedroom at some point. Coulda been a one-night stand or someone cleaning her place or—

Or the real killer.

There’s a long spate of silence before Ramsby clears his throat.

It’s a possibility. A very small one.

Jesus Christ, so you’re saying you had this evidence and you buried it?

That fucking kid had the murder weapon—from his daddy’s woodshop, mind you—hidden under his bathroom sink. His jizz was on the last victim’s leg and her blood was on his shirt. You telling me I should’ve thrown some reasonable doubt into that jury’s head because of a mystery hair? That, my friend, is the definition of acquittal by technicality.

Who else knows?

Besides you and me? The lead forensic tech and the chief of police at the time. The tech is retired in Florida and the chief’s taken the eternal retirement, which isn’t too far off for yours truly.

So there’s no record of this?

Other than what I’m telling you now? Not a trace.

There’s a squeak of a chair and she envisions Eeling leaning back, trying to absorb what he’s just learned.

Tommy Conlee could be innocent.

He’s not. We got the right man.

That wasn’t for you to decide.

I spent three years, three fucking years, on the Bedfellow case. I ate, drank, and slept that thing. I dreamed about it. Still do sometimes. The guy was careful and clean until he wasn’t. That break we got was a gift and the hair in Moorhead’s apartment would’ve destroyed it.

So if you’re so sure, why are you telling me this?

Hattie leans forward, listening to Ramsby’s labored breathing. It seems to go on forever.

Guess I’m tired of withholding.

The recording ends.

50

Time slips.

For a while it’s still early morning, then afternoon sunshine is slanting through the windows, strong and bright. Hattie comes free of thoughts so deep and profound they’re like a black hole, swallowing all other awareness.

She registers faint hunger pangs and makes a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, chewing without tasting and washing it down with a glass of iced tea. More than the food itself, the act of eating re-meshes her gears and she types a search into the internet browser, scanning through the headings until she finds the one she’s looking for.

Detective Donald Ramsby died a little over two weeks ago. “Succumbed to a long battle with chronic illness,” the obituary states. He is survived by an ex-wife and remembered for his illustrious career as a dedicated public servant.

Hattie slaps the laptop shut. Almost hurls it across the room. Partially because the object of her anger no longer exists in the world. Mostly because even if he did there would be no way to verify or disprove what he said to Eeling.

Doubt is hell’s currency.

“He could’ve been lying,” she says to the empty house. But why? What did he have to gain by saying he skewed a major case? Maybe it was a joke. A little ha-ha on the investigative journalist who came knocking. But that didn’t ring true either. There was too much gravity in the dying man’s voice. And no matter what he said about guilt, he hadn’t wanted to go to his grave holding that knowledge alone.

Hattie chews the side of her mouth and spends ten minutes researching who the lead forensic tech was for the Bedfellow case, then stops. What good would it do? Ramsby said the guy was retired—long gone to some Floridian community. And what would he say if confronted with the accusation? She doesn’t need to see the tech in person or even call him to know what the answer would be. No, all Ramsby did was hand off the doubt to Eeling like a baton in a relay race.

And now that baton is hers.

She pulls the laptop shut again and goes to the den. It’s a clear day sliding into dusk and the seabirds are out in number, flapping and squalling for food. The water is a serene blue and she imagines wading into it and disappearing.

A knock brings her back with a jerk. Time has skipped forward again. The bay’s lost its color and shadows point hard east. On the way to the front door she imagines opening it to find Eeling standing there, ready for another interview session, the last forty-eight hours one of her delusions. She would gladly accept it at this point no matter what it meant for her mental state. When she opens the door it’s not Eeling who waits there.

But it is a ghost.

51

“Trick or treat.”

The small, sheeted figure with eyeholes cut out holds a plastic bucket in the shape of a jack-o’-lantern. She knows those eyes and all at once recalls what day it is.

Halloween.

“Hey there,” Hattie says, recovering with a smile. “Now who could this spooky ghoul be?” On the right side of the yard Kevin and Wendy appear looking very New England dressed in warm jackets and hats. She gives them a wink.

“I can’t tell you,” Julian says.

“Oh, I see. I’ll just call you ‘ghoulie,’ then. How’s that?”

The eyes behind the sheet twinkle. “Okay.”

“Come in and we’ll see what we have for a treat.” She ushers him inside along with his parents. Kevin and Wendy offer tight smiles that fade immediately. Hattie goes to her pantry and finds a chocolate bar she reserved for baking and drops it into Julian’s empty bucket.

“Thank you!”

“You’re welcome, ghoulie. I bet you’re going to get a lot of candy tonight.”

“Hope so.”

“Why don’t you use Mary’s bathroom while we’re here,” Wendy says. “We won’t have another chance until we get back home.” Julian trots off down the hall.

“Don’t pee on your sheet,” Kevin calls.

“Daaaad,” the muffled reply comes as the door closes.

They appraise one another for a beat.

“We thought it would be good for him to go tonight,” Wendy says almost apologetically.

“Didn’t want him to think we were punishing him,” Kevin adds.

“But we’re going north to Lakefield instead of hitting any of the neighborhoods around here just because . . .” Wendy trails off.

“I think that’s really good,” Hattie says.

“You do?” Wendy looks as if she were waiting for the approval.

“Yes. Doing something normal will help him move forward. Help all of you.” Kevin nods but his brow is deeply lined.

Wendy steps closer, lowering her voice. “The psychologist was great. She spent over an hour with him yesterday. She said he’s very intelligent. Maybe more so than we thought.”

“She’s going to give him an IQ test during the next session,” Kevin adds as the toilet flushes. They lean apart as the bathroom door opens and Julian floats into view.

“Ready to go, champ?” Kevin asks. Julian responds by making a ghostly woooo-ing. The little family files toward the door.

“Hold on just a second,” Hattie says. They all turn. “I’ve got one more treat,” she says, looking meaningfully at Kevin and Wendy. Wendy catches on first and tugs at Kevin’s sleeve. “We’ll be in the car,” she says to Julian, who nods through his sheet. The adults head down the steps and Hattie grabs a can of soda from the fridge, depositing it in Julian’s bucket.

“I . . .” she begins, then clears her throat. “I’m sorry for scaring you yesterday. About the seagull.” She waits but Julian just watches her from beneath the sheet. She imagines it isn’t him at all under there but a stranger. Someone seeing through the costume she’s wearing. Seeing who she really is. “I just didn’t want you to touch it and get sick.”

He stands perfectly still. “I wasn’t scared. I don’t get scared.”

“Everyone gets scared sometimes. And that’s okay.”

“What scares you?”

Her throat narrows. “Lots of things.”

“Dying?”

“Yes.”

“Is that why the seagull scared you? Because it’s dead?”

“Maybe.”

“The bugs were eating it, and they’re alive.”

“Right . . .”

“So it’s still alive too.”

“I guess in a way, yes.”

“Nothing really dies.”

Julian turns and steps outside. Without a look back he glides across the yard and disappears into the trees, a miniature apparition fading into the gloom.

52

For the next two days she doesn’t see another person, doesn’t speak to anyone, has no contact with the outside world.

She submerges into Eeling’s research like a diver descending into an underwater cave system, darkly aware of being swallowed whole by the past. Aware she could become lost.

For a while she is.

She creates a workstation at the kitchen table since it has the best light in the cottage and equips it with her laptop, a notepad and pens, and a bottomless cup of tea. Within Eeling’s files there are endless pages of background regarding the Bedfellow case, all of his thorough research detailing times and places, victims and witnesses, observations and criminal theory. It is both immersive and daunting. She works methodically through each document, cross-referencing a fact when she’s not familiar with it and listening to Eeling’s voice memos—mostly brief notes to himself for later expansion.

Much of the work is familiar. Either she lived it or read it while Tommy’s case was ongoing. There are few things she wasn’t aware of—those that seem important she jots down in a bulleted list in her notebook.

It’s on the second day as a fickle rain falls that she plays one of the audio files she noticed initially. It’s marked Ginger Beckem, but it’s the notation not the name that sparks her interest—Leah Sterling coworker.

She hits play.

Interview with Ginger Beckem regarding the Bedfellow murders, Eeling says. In the background there is the muted sound of children shouting and playing. I just want to make sure you’re fine with your statements being represented in the book.

Oh sure. I’ve got nothing to hide. Besides, this is the most interesting thing that’s happened to me all month. Ginger barks some laughter. Her voice is high and nasally.

Okay, can you give me a little background as far as your relationship with Thomas Conlee and/or Leah Sterling?

I really only met Tommy once. It was at a party right before all that sh—stuff went down. He and Leah were just getting back together. They’d been dating for like, forever before that and broke up over something stupid. Leah told me he only started dating that Cheryl to make her jealous. I mean, she did the same thing with a guy who worked with us at the pizza place. They messed around a little but it was nothing serious. Leah was totally in love with Tommy.

So, you knew Leah mostly from working with her at . . . Pizza Train?

Yeah. That place was a total dump right down by the tracks. But they made a mean all-meat special. We’d get a lot of drunks on the weekends. They were terrible tippers.

Were you and Leah close?

Nah. I mean, we talked and hung out a little. But waitressing wasn’t her career, she was just getting herself through school. She was hella smart. She helped me with my GED. I’d probably still be waiting tables in that hole if I hadn’t graduated.

The children’s yells rise to a crescendo in the background.

Hold on. Damn it, Nathan! I told you not to push her! I swear to Christ, you do it again and no cartoons today! I mean it! A pause. Sorry about that—brats get playing too rough, you know? And my husband wonders why I don’t get anything done around the house while he’s at work. I’d like to see him try to manage them and cook and clean too.

Right. So, did you notice anything different about Leah prior to Tommy’s arrest?

You mean did I know she was knocked up? No. Like I said, I knew her and Tommy were a thing again and he’d broken it off with Cheryl, Leah told me that much. I thought everything was said and done until Cheryl showed up at our work one night.

Cheryl came to Pizza Train?

Oh yeah. I didn’t know who she was. Just seated her at the bar. Then Leah comes out and Cheryl starts saying some stuff about Tommy, and Leah makes her go outside to talk.

Did you overhear what they were talking about?

Yeah, but I didn’t mean to. Not really. It was totally my break time and I used to smoke so I grabbed a cigarette and went out the side door. They were around the corner and I could hear them arguing.

They were fighting about Tommy?

Oh yeah. Big time. Leah was trying to keep it cool, but Cheryl was yelling. I mean, nasty stuff too. Talking about how Tommy loved her and not Leah and how she fuc—was better in bed than Leah—that Tommy had said so. Eventually Leah said something I couldn’t hear but it must’ve touched a nerve.

Why’s that?

Because Cheryl said she’d better stay away from Tommy otherwise she’d kill her.

You heard Cheryl threaten to kill Leah?

Plain as day. Real ironic because it wasn’t a week later and she was dead.

53

Hattie replays the exchange, then sits back and holds her mug of tea to warm her hands.

Leah had never mentioned a confrontation with Cheryl. Maybe she’d told the police and they’d dismissed it since the case seemed so open and shut.

Or maybe Leah had kept it to herself.

On a new page in her notebook, Hattie writes Leah’s name and beneath it Cheryl confrontation? The next time they talk she’ll ask her about it.

She stops for lunch—not hungry but eating anyway. Picking at a salad, she cues up another interview. This one is labeled Jane Everson—Dustin Reiten neighbor. She recalls the name along with the elderly face it belongs to as Jane’s voice comes from the laptop’s speakers.

Do you want anything to drink?

No, I’m fine. But thank you, Eeling says. There’s a faint ticking of a clock in the background, otherwise it’s silent. And Mrs. Everson, you’re okay with me using your statements in my work?

Well, I suppose so. It’s been over a decade since this all happened. Half the people involved have either moved away or died. Even the Reitens divorced and sold their place so I’m not sure how much it matters. Plus, I’m pretty old, what are they going to do to me? She punctuates this with a raucous laugh.

Okay then. Well, please tell me how it all started.

The break-ins, you mean? Well, it was summer, I know that much because the Earls—they were the first to get burgled—were in Europe. They always went for a couple weeks in June or July. When they got home they noticed some jewelry missing but no signs of a break-in, which was really strange because they had a security system too. It made sense later, though. Then there were a few other people a street or two over who had busted windows and forced doors while they were out. Some of them were missing things, some weren’t. It made me a little nervous and I was considering getting a security system installed but then it all came to a head and was over. Funny that it was me who cracked the case. The laugh again but with less humor.

Can you tell me how that happened?

Sure. It’s odd how other things are starting to slip at my age, but that I can remember clear as day. It was later that summer and my sister out in Seattle invited me to come stay. It was nice getting away from the heat, I didn’t mind the rain out there at all. We had a lovely time, but then I got a little homesick and decided to cut the trip short. When I got back it was well after midnight, and I was tired. All I could think about was my own bed. When you get older, strange beds become your enemy, remember that, Mr. Eeling.

I will. And please call me Ross.

Well, Ross, I was asleep on my feet when I got here but even so I noticed something wasn’t right. There were dirty dishes in the sink and crumbs on the table. At first I wondered if I was losing what little remained of my mind and hadn’t cleaned up before I left, but then I found the cause upstairs.

Dustin Reiten.

That’s right. It turns out he was the one behind the break-ins. Some of the places he was familiar with—he was friends with the Earls’ son and knew the security code, that’s why the system hadn’t been tripped. Others he broke in and stayed awhile, but he always knew when people weren’t home. I guess that was the most disturbing part about the whole thing—he’d been watching people pretty closely, figuring out their routines.

And you said beforehand you thought it stemmed from his sister’s death?

Oh yes, poor Alicia. She was a troubled one. She was maybe five or six years older than Dustin, but they were close. She didn’t get along with their parents at all—can’t say I blame her. Alicia left home as soon as she turned eighteen and got hooked on booze, then drugs. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-two when she jumped off a balcony in Chicago. It was very hard on Dustin.

For a moment Hattie can feel Dustin’s young shoulders quaking as she’d held him all those years ago. Recalls her own tears as she and Ed and Tommy consoled him. Dustin had desperately needed them then, given how detached his own parents had become.

And you think that’s why he was breaking into houses?

I’m sure of it. I think he was looking for comfort he wasn’t getting at home. The houses he broke into were safe places where he could pretend everything was okay, even if it was just for a night. Of course, Dustin’s parents were able to cover it all up. They were close with the chief of police, and they were able to make reparations for the things Dustin stole. They offered me a thousand dollars if you can believe it, even though he hadn’t taken a thing except a few snacks from the pantry. I wasn’t going to press charges anyway knowing what the boy was going through.

So, what was Dustin doing when you got home that night and found him here?

He wasn’t really doing anything.

Jane pauses and sighs.

He was sleeping in my bed.

54

She begins to pace.

Back and forth across the kitchen, but it isn’t big enough. Then she goes up and down the hall, but that’s not enough room either. Hattie dons her running gear and leaves the cottage, jogging down the driveway through half-hearted rain. It’s cold and her breath plumes.

She’d known Dustin had gotten in trouble in his junior year. Known he was struggling with his sister’s death. Known his parents had checked out emotionally and physically. But she hadn’t known the extent of it. Hadn’t known it wasn’t a single incident but a spate of them culminating in being caught sleeping in—

their beds, he killed them and slept in their beds

—Jane Everson’s house. She hadn’t known how much he was hurting until now. If only Dustin’s parents had invested as much energy into helping their son as they did in covering up his offenses.

She picks up her pace.

The other fact that settles upon her as Sloan’s mailbox comes into view is that Tommy probably knew, no, definitely knew, about the trouble Dustin had gotten into and never said a word. She’s both moved by his loyalty and taken aback he’d kept that kind of secret from her and Ed. To them Dustin had grieved, acted out, then moved forward with his life.

But what if he hadn’t?

What if Alicia’s death had created a wound inside him that had festered instead of healed? What if the break-ins were only a warm-up for what was to come? What if Dustin had gone on to commit horrible acts, then laid the blame of his crimes at the feet of his best friend? And everyone had believed it.

Even her.

Her lungs begin to burn along with the muscles in her legs, but she continues on, actually pushing a little harder as if to keep these new suspicions at arm’s length. They’re too massive to contemplate. She doesn’t know where to begin.

When the rain begins falling harder she turns around and starts back home. She’s soaked through—cold and sweating all at the same time. If she’s not careful she’ll catch her death. But she’s gratified to be able to maintain a steady pace all the way to her drive even as the rain intensifies. It gives her a sense she’ll be able to meet whatever’s over the horizon with strength and grace. She’s survived this long and she’s not willing to—

Her stride falters and she comes to a stop, staring up the last stretch of the driveway, which is no longer empty.

A sheriff’s cruiser is parked before her house.

55

“Mary Whittaker?”

The uniformed man seated on her front porch rises as she comes up the steps, the shock of his presence clinging to her as coldly as her wet clothes. He’s somewhere north of sixty with white hair and crinkled lines around his eyes and mouth. He holds a ball cap in one hand with a sheriff’s insignia on its front.

“Yes?”

“Harry Altringer, county sheriff.” He holds out a hand for her to shake and she does briefly after trying to dry her palm on her wet leggings. “Wow, you’re a diehard to be out in all this.”

“It wasn’t bad when I left but . . .” Her thoughts flutter. He could be here for anything, just stay calm. Don’t give him anything to be suspicious of. “What can I do for you, Sheriff?”

Altringer glances out at the weather, then at the puddle forming near her feet. “Mind if we step inside?”

“Of course.”

Hattie pauses in the entryway, judging if Altringer will be satisfied with simply being out of the rain, but the sheriff is glancing past her into the cottage. “Nice and warm in here. Must have a fire going in the den there.”

“Yes. Come in.” She kicks her shoes off and crosses to the kitchen table, trying not to move too quickly as she gathers her research materials. She snaps the laptop closed and folds the notebook shut, placing them on the counter beside the fridge. Altringer stands in the middle of the kitchen, smiling faintly. She’s had enough experience with law enforcement to know he’s waiting for her to speak first. To ask why he’s there. He’s also watching to see how she’s reacting to his appearance. She’s about to ask him if he wants coffee or tea when something occurs to her. “Sorry, how did you know my stove is in the den?”

The faint smile broadens but never touches his eyes. “It’s not the first time I’ve been here. Used to be friendly with the former owner. Max and I played cribbage sometimes. I was sad to see him sell.” Before she can react to this he says, “Wanna get out of those clothes?”

For a second she wonders if it’s a crude come-on, or if this man is a sheriff at all—she hasn’t asked to see any ID—but then realizes she’s still dripping rainwater onto the floor. “Yes, be right back.” She strips in her bedroom’s attached bath, then redresses in dry sweats, smoothing her hair into a wet ponytail while staring at her reflection. She looks like a tired old woman, but not a guilty one. “Keep it that way,” she whispers, and heads back to the kitchen.

Altringer has seated himself at the table, his ball cap snugged over one of his knees. “Coffee, Sheriff?” she asks.

“Much obliged.”

She pours them each a cup from the carafe and sits opposite him. “I hope I’m not in trouble—think all my parking tickets are paid up.”

Altringer laughs loudly. “Gosh no, no trouble. Well, there is some trouble but I’m sure you don’t know anything about it.”

Her heart rate, which was just beginning to slow, double-times again. “Does this have something to do with the Crawfords? Julian—”

“No, no. That’s a mess for sure but it’s not why I’m here.” He draws out his phone, taps the screen a few times, then turns it toward her. “Ever seen this man before?”

Ross Eeling’s face smiles at her.

Instinct kicks in and she nods. There’s zero reason he would be asking if he didn’t already know the answer. “Yes, actually. He stopped by a few days ago. His name is Ross . . . something. I can’t recall his last name.”

“Eeling.”

“That’s it.”

“Can you tell me why he came to see you?”

Don’t lie. Bend the truth. Keep it simple. “He said he was a journalist, and he was working on a book. Something to do with the history of the area. We talked for a while, but I couldn’t help him much since I haven’t lived here all that long.” She sips her coffee hoping he didn’t hear the faint waver in her voice near the end.

Altringer’s eyebrows knit together. “When did you move in, by the way? Was it five years ago?”

“Almost six.”

“Time does fly, doesn’t it?” He smiles again and lets the silence spool out.

She resists the urge to shift in her seat and says, “Did he do something wrong?”

“Mmm, depends on how you look at it.”

“Did something happen to him?”

“Afraid so.”

“Is he okay?”

“Not at all.” His smile fades. “He was the victim of an apparent suicide.”

“That’s terrible. When did it happen?”

“Not exactly sure yet—medical examiner’s still working on him, but I’d wager about three days ago, give or take. When did you say he stopped in here?”

She furrows her brow in an attempt at thoughtfulness. “Let’s see. I think it was Monday if I remember right.”

“And you said he was asking about the area?”

“Yes, for research. I told him what I knew, which isn’t much, and we chatted for a while. Then he left. He seemed like a nice man—I’m sorry to hear he’s gone.”

“Yuh, it’s sad. Lots of sad things in this line of work. But people usually have their reasons, don’t they?”

The back of her throat prickles. “I suppose so.”

“Do you know if he visited anyone else on the cove?”

“I’m not sure.”

“He didn’t say?”

“No.”

“And you didn’t point him in any direction?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you didn’t suggest he talk to anyone else who’s lived here longer?”

“I kind of assumed he was talking to everyone.” Altringer makes a noncommittal sound and continues to watch her. “Was he really a journalist?”

“Far as we can tell. What makes you ask?”

“Well, I figured something must be off if you’re interviewing people he talked to.”

He considers this. “Mindy Mason—works over at the market, she said she noticed him a few times at the coffee bar there over the last month or so. Recognized his rental car pulling into your place one day when she was on her way to work.”

Goddamn motormouth Mindy Mason. “I see. So you started with me.”

Altringer makes a finger gun and fires it at her. “The landlord who rents the place he was found in didn’t know anything—never even met him. One of those online A and B things, whatever you call them. The new renters went to check in and saw his vehicle still there. Called it in.” He readjusts his ball cap on his knee. “Smelled something off when they opened the door.”

“That’s awful.” She begins to wonder if Mindy had seen Eeling’s car pulling into her place more than once. If so, Altringer’s given her all the rope she needs to hang herself with.

“What possessed you to move here, Mary? If you don’t mind me asking.”

This throws her for a second. “I wanted a change of scenery.”

“Whereabouts are you from originally?”

“California.”

“Mmm. Beautiful state. Been to see the redwoods a couple times. Extraordinary. So, what drew you in particular to our little corner of the map?”

She shrugs. “I was always enamored with Maine. Came here as a little girl and never really forgot it.”

“It’s one of a kind.” He gestures around them. “Kind of like this house, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I guess so.”

“You guess so?”

She watches him for a long beat. “I think you’re trying to get at something, but I’m not sure what it is.”

His aww shucks smile returns, which looks thin and insincere now. “Not at all. It’s just when Mindy said this Eeling character had been in to see you I recalled something Max said after he sold. He said you seemed like you weren’t interested in any house but his. Like only this place would do.”

Hattie’s pulse jitters in her throat. Feels like it’s coming through the skin.

With a quickness that doesn’t feel her own she throws the remainder of her coffee in his face.

Altringer cries out and rears back in his chair, cupping his hands to his eyes. Then she’s up and around the kitchen table, her hand finding the pistol in his duty belt and yanking it free. Altringer registers this and tries to stop her but he’s too slow and still half blind from the coffee in his eyes.

He starts to stand but she thrusts the gun’s barrel against his forehead, pinning him to the chair, and pulls the trigger.

“Mary?”

Hattie blinks, coming free of the daymare.

Her hands are balled into fists on the tabletop. Her coffee is still in the mug, steam rising from it. Altringer’s watching her with the beginnings of concern. How long has she been out? Only seconds.

She forces a grin. “What can I say? Love at first sight.”

He studies her for another drawn moment, then returns her smile. “I can appreciate that. It’s a beautiful spot. I might’ve put a bid in for it if I would’ve known Max was selling but—” He shakes his head. “Probably out of my price range anyway.” He tosses back the remainder of his coffee and stands. She does, too, tamping down relief.

Altringer pauses in the entryway. “You didn’t see if Eeling stopped into the Crawfords’ after visiting you?”

“I didn’t, but I wasn’t looking either.” She flashes on the memory of Wendy and Julian coming by while Eeling was here. Had Wendy actually seen him through the window or only noticed his car? Julian had definitely gotten a look at Eeling. Good enough to identify him? Maybe. Maybe not.

“Well, I won’t bother them right now. Not with everything they’re dealing with.” He tips his head to the north. “And I’d stop in to see your pal Sloan across the way but I very much doubt he’d let a journalist into his home. He probably pulled that old service weapon on him he keeps by the door.” He chuckles and she joins him.

“He’s not the most hospitable person I’ve ever met.”

“You can put that in stone.” He sobers. “Appreciate your cooperation, Mary.”

“Of course. Anytime, Sheriff.”

He starts to go out the door but stops again. “And you didn’t notice any strange behavior from Eeling while he was here? No odd comments or otherwise?”

“No. Nothing. Like I said, he was pleasant.”

Altringer gazes out at the soaking weather. “Funny how well people can hide their true selves, isn’t it? Makes you wonder if anything’s real sometimes.”

With that he tips her a nod and goes out into the rain.

56

She polishes the last of the wine off, wanting more, but there’s nothing else in the house.

As soon as Altringer pulled out of sight she’d slumped into a kitchen chair and sat there breathing deeply until the shakes passed. She hadn’t considered someone seeing Eeling pulling into her place, but she should have. Should’ve taken more precautions because now she’s on Altringer’s radar.

He knows something. But what?

That’s the question, isn’t it? She doesn’t think she’d missed anything incriminating at Eeling’s rental because he would’ve taken a more direct tact instead of dancing around like he had. He’s suspicious of how she settled in the community, but not because of Eeling.

“At least not yet,” she says, going through the pantry one final time to make sure there’s not a spare bottle of wine hiding somewhere inside. If Altringer learns that Eeling didn’t visit anyone else in town besides her—that will be a different story. It depends on how hard he’s going to chase a suicide.

Apparent suicide. He said “apparent.” She doesn’t like that but there’s not much she can do about it. Besides, she’s still wondering about it herself. If it really is what it looked like.

She settles for a root beer and brings the laptop and notebook back to the table. She’ll have to be more careful not to leave this stuff out—it wouldn’t take the most inquisitive mind to get the gist of what she’s working on and make a connection to her former life.

As she sips her drink, she scans through more of the voice memos, coming to rest on a file titled Jolette Smith—Colm Tyring second cousin—and hits play.

I shouldn’t be doing this. Jolette’s voice is deep and cigarette stained. I don’t know why I agreed to.

I appreciate you speaking with me, Mrs. Smith.

God, please don’t call me that. Makes me feel so much older than I am. Jolette will do fine.

Jolette—thank you for agreeing to the interview, but if you’re not comfortable I’ll stop recording right now.

A long pause. Somewhere in the background a car horn honks and fades.

No, no. Let’s do it. You’re here and all. Drove all this way and I’d feel bad otherwise. But lord, since I got thinking about everything it’s upset me all over again. Lost some sleep on it. People say you should confront what bothers you most but I’m not so sure. I think you can bury some things and leave them be just fine. Doesn’t do any good to dig up the dead. There’s the snap of a lighter and Jolette’s deep inhale and exhale. All right then, ask what you need to ask.

Your cousin is . . . was Brenda Tyring, Colm’s mother, correct?

That’s right.

Were the two of you close?

Close enough. Inseparable as kids but then grew apart some as we got older. Still talked on the phone from time to time and saw one another on holidays and whatnot. That was until she got deep into the drugs. Then I only heard from her when she got really desperate for money.

What kind of drugs?

Cocaine, ketamine—little of everything. When she got into heroin that’s when things really went south.

How old would you say Colm was then?

Let’s see. Maybe six or seven when Brenda started shooting up. I remember one time she called me to come pick him up from her place—said she was having a get-together. When I got there it was a get-together all right, a gathering of junkies. Everyone was stoned out of their minds. I gave her a talking-to but I was also glad she called so I could get Colm out of there for a while. She promised she was just blowing off some steam. This was when she was still working. Like a fool I went along with it. Kept Colm for a few days until she came to pick him up. She was sober and happy to see him and he her. Things took a turn when she lost her job. I started noticing bruises on Colm, and not the kind little boys get falling on the playground. Brenda waved it off when I said something—said he was clumsy—but then at Christmas he had a cigarette burn on his arm, plain as day. Well, I’ll tell you I was horrified. I felt like I had to do something, so I called social services, and they removed him for a time.

How long?

Not long. The goal is to rehabilitate and reunite families. Most times I think that’s noble, but others it’s a mistake. See, Brenda was good for a bit—got herself cleaned up enough to get a job at a gas station and made all her appointed visits and court dates and managed to get custody back. Once she did, she came to see me.

What did she say?

Said she knew it was me who turned her in to child services. Said if I ever came in between her and Colm again I’d have a fire at my house while I was asleep, and I’d burn up in my bed. I believed her. After that I’m sorry to say I kept out of her business. Quit going to gatherings and never answered another one of her calls. Jolette releases a shaky sigh. That’s the shame I have to carry on with—knowing that little boy suffered in her care for the next few years because I was afraid.

I’m sorry.

Thank you, but I don’t deserve it. I’m just glad it played out how it did, otherwise I don’t know if Colm would be who he is today. I don’t know if he’d even be alive.

From what I understand when Brenda died he was home with her.

That’s right. She stayed clean for a bit after regaining custody but then went off the rails. They moved into a shitty little apartment with some guy Brenda was sleeping with. When he ran off she started using even more. Colm got to school on his own so there were no truancy checks. Not until the end that is. The lighter snicks again as Jolette lights another cigarette.

That’s who found them? Someone from the school?

That’s right. I just wish I would’ve been braver. Then he wouldn’t have endured what he did at the end.

Did Brenda abuse him more prior to overdosing?

She sure did, but that’s not the worst of it. See, she died sometime during the weekend, and no one came to check on Colm until the following Tuesday.

Jolette drags deeply on her cigarette and releases a long exhale. Hattie can almost smell the smoke.

Colm was alone with her body for days.

57

Hattie closes the laptop with a hand that doesn’t feel like her own.

“Jesus,” she whispers. She’d caught sight of a shadow behind Colm’s eyes over the years, how he avoided certain topics and wore long sleeves as much as possible to cover up the scars peppering his arms, but she had no idea it had been this bad.

But we never asked, Ed murmurs.

“No, we didn’t.” She supposes it was because they didn’t want to press on any raw nerves, and also a naive part of her wanted to believe once you moved on from the past you were free of it. But she found out firsthand that wasn’t true at all.

She imagines the long hours and endless days Colm spent with his mother’s lifeless body. What that might’ve done to a vulnerable mind. How it may have broken part of him that never recovered.

Hattie touches Leah’s, Dustin’s, and Colm’s names on the paper where she’s written them. Tommy’s closest friends. Her children in all but blood.

She swallows bitterness on the back of her tongue, trying to deny what their names are now.

A list of suspects.

She can’t fathom any of them framing Tommy, much less committing multiple murders in the first place. But she never thought her own son was capable of such horrific acts either.

And maybe he wasn’t.

For a second she lets the thought in. Imagines Tommy’s innocence and what it would mean. Her throat tightens and her vision smears. There is movement out the den windows, the flutter of great gray wings, but she doesn’t look. Doesn’t want to know if the owl is there or not, witnessing her guilt again.

A sound from down the hall jerks her upright. She stiffens, listening as it comes again.

The old iPhone is ringing.

Hattie hurries to her room and pulls open the bedside drawer, sure it will be Tommy calling, asking with his silence for her to help him stop. But it isn’t. It’s Leah.

“Hey, everything okay?”

“Yeah, we’re fine. Are you? You sound out of breath,” Leah says.

“I’m . . . I’m okay.” She wanders back to the kitchen. “Ran to get the phone is all.”

“I’m not bothering you, am I?”

“You’re never bothering me, honey.”

A pause. “That guy isn’t there, is he? The writer?”

“No. No, he’s not here. He’s—” Something keeps her from telling Leah the truth. Not yet, not yet. “He’s gone.”

“He got what he wanted?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Well, I hope we never see him again.” Hattie bites the inside of her mouth. Leah’s voice brightens. “So, the other reason I’m calling is Thanksgiving.”

Hattie sits at the kitchen table. Evening is settling outside the windows and she’s suddenly very tired. She could sleep for years. “Thanksgiving?”

“I know you’ll probably say no, but we’re getting together on the holiday weekend. Colm’s coming here and we would love for you to join us.”

She almost says no but bites off the reply at the last second. Her fingers trace their names again, one after the other. Eeling’s voice is a dying echo in her mind. Thomas Conlee is innocent. And I intend to prove it.

“I’ll come,” she says, still staring at the page. “I’d love to see all of you.”

58

I think someone very close to Thomas Conlee framed him for the Bedfellow murders, someone with intimate knowledge of and access to his personal life who was able to create such overwhelming evidence against him that no one, not even his own family, believed he was innocent at the end. It’s well known the Bedfellow was adept at accessing their victims’ homes via picking locks or other means, but they wouldn’t have had to in Tommy’s case. It would have been someone who could’ve freely entered his apartment without alarm and gathered the necessary items (i.e. his T-shirt and a recently used condom) to incriminate him. I think his framing was brought on by a mistake made by the real killer—one they thought would lead to their eventual capture, which is why Cheryl Barton was killed.

Cheryl doesn’t fit the other victim profiles—she’s younger by at least five years, she’s blond instead of brunette, and she was killed by several stab wounds to the throat instead of a single puncture wound at the base of the skull like all the other victims. She was also killed while awake instead of sleeping. I think Cheryl was a convenient cover to incriminate Thomas Conlee after the killer’s prior misstep.

And I think the proof will be in the photos Detective Ramsby said he would send me.

This . . . this isn’t going in the book, at least I don’t think so, but I feel like I’m being watched. I think it’s just from being immersed in the case for so long—it gets under your skin. But there’s this overwhelming feeling someone’s following me. It’s been there for the last few weeks, and I can’t shake it. My first thought was Dustin Reiten because of our last run-in. Scared the shit out of me when he showed up at the hotel where I was staying while interviewing him and Leah Sterling. Must’ve followed me there. He wanted to know how I found them, but I wasn’t going to give up Ramsby—not when I’m still depending on him to come through with the pictures. But Dustin was . . . insistent. I’ve been threatened before and you can tell when someone’s serious or not. He was serious. Even if I hadn’t had enough material I wouldn’t have gone back to their place again. Not after seeing the look in his eyes. I must still be a little shook up because the only person I’ve really interacted with since I got here is Hattie Conlee, and she doesn’t seem like one to follow anyone home.

Hattie’s . . . complex. I can tell she still loves her son, but she’s mourning him too. I suppose you’d never quit mourning the person you thought you knew. She mentioned me admiring Tommy, but it’s her I actually admire. She’s had the strength not only to carry on, but start over. Not many people could do that. I know she hates me, but if I’m right, it might change not only her life, but all the lives destroyed by the Bedfellow. I’m going to try to explain everything. I hope she’ll—

Thought I heard something. I think it’s just nerves. I’ve decided I don’t really care for the country. Excited to get back to the city lights, and more importantly, Owen and Natalie. Wading through all of this hardship and trauma has given me an even deeper appreciation for my family. I’m going to do everything I can to hold on to them since they’re the most precious things in the world. I hope . . .

I hope it’s not too late.

59

Hattie watches the landscape scroll by the train’s windows.

They’re almost to Boston, the naked trees and browning fields giving way to low industrial buildings, schools, rowhouse neighborhoods. She sees it all and sees nothing.

She’s mentally replaying the last few files from Eeling’s work, the most haunting so far. After researching Elle Marks, the final name in the file with no other information attached to it, she thinks she knows what the Bedfellow’s mistake was. And the mention of photos Ramsby was supposed to send Eeling is deeply intriguing, but she couldn’t find any trace of them. She also can’t get the memo from Eeling’s last night alive out of her head. Knowing now that Dustin threatened him adds a whole new aspect to everything. It fully calls into question whether Eeling was paranoid or if someone was really following him. Whether he’d put the bag over his head and snugged the zip tie tight, or if someone else had.

The thing she can’t shake is he didn’t sound like a man on the verge of ending his life. He sounded like one starting anew.

Hattie blinks as the train clacks its way around another long bend, the buildings growing in height. She’s glad the holiday is over and there are few people on this leg of the trip into the city. She could’ve driven but didn’t feel up to it, wanted time to think instead, and the steady chuckle of the train was good for that.

Over the weeks since Leah’s invite she’d delved deeper into Eeling’s research, reading and listening late into the night. Most days she spent walking along the shoreline, which was taking on the shades of early winter. She was alone on the inlets and rocky coves. Spent hours watching the cold Atlantic roll in, her thoughts rolling with it.

A shifting was occurring inside her. One she couldn’t fully acknowledge. At least not yet. It was too large to look at straight on. So she continued to circle it, testing its border and boundaries. Testing her own.

Thanksgiving itself had been a brief but very welcome respite. She’d spent most of the day with the Crawfords, then headed over in the evening for pie with Sloan and his son Adam. Better than the food was the news Wendy had been bursting with when Hattie joined them for glasses of predinner wine.

The lawsuit’s been dropped! Or I guess it never really got going. There were too many witnesses to the Graner boy bullying and assaulting Jules, and the parents pulled back. Isn’t that wonderful?

She’d agreed it was, but hearing of Julian’s progress in therapy was even more heartening.

His IQ is in the ninetieth percentile for his age, Kevin said as he cut the turkey. His therapist says that’s where so much of his anger is stemming from—he’s not being challenged.

So we enrolled him in a private school with programming specifically for gifted children, Wendy added. And it doesn’t look like there will be any formal charges brought. Given his age and lack of prior offenses, the DA and the judge agreed that if Julian stays in therapy and there’s no further incidents, there won’t be any punishment.

No further incidents. Hattie drank to that.

Julian himself was more cheerful and boisterous than she’d ever seen him before. The quiet, somber boy had receded and an engaged, talkative child had stepped forward. She watched him closely all through the meal and afterward during a family game of Clue. Whether it was wishful thinking or not, he did seem different. Lighter somehow.

She hopes that’s true. Hopes all her suspicion and worry is unfounded. A phantom haunting her like the owl.

The train slows as they near the station. Hattie readies herself but all she really has is her purse. She consciously relaxes. All through the holiday meals she’s been tense, waiting for one of the Crawfords or Sloan to bring up a visit by Sheriff Altringer. For them to ask her why she’d lied about who her visitor had been. But there’d been no mention of the sheriff or anything else concerning Eeling. Sloan in particular had been distracted, saying he hadn’t been sleeping well. Aches and pains keeping him up. She’d offered to bring him into the clinic, but he’d merely waved her away and changed the subject.

The train shudders to a stop and the other travelers stand and gather their bags before trundling down the aisle. She waits until they’ve gone before she gets up. Part of her wants to stay seated and simply ride the train back north and not go through with what she’s been contemplating in the last weeks. But another greater part of her is committed. She has to know.

Hattie leaves the train and walks through the station, spotting Leah, Dustin, and Colm almost immediately, instantly touched they came together to pick her up. They wave and she waves back, unable to ignore the thought crawling along the back of her mind even as she embraces each of them.

One of you could be my son’s betrayer. One of you could be a killer.

60

“That was excellent,” Hattie says, sitting back from the table. “Great job you guys.”

“It was mostly D,” Leah says, squeezing Dustin’s arm. “I was only in charge of the wine.”

“I took a cooking class this summer,” Dustin says, rising to clear the overloaded table. “It was a beginner’s course, but I got a lot out of it.”

“I guess,” Colm says, nudging the bowl nearest him. “You’re over here making world-class dishes, and I barely remembered to buy cookie salad.”

“But it was really, really good cookie salad,” Leah says, eyes sparkling.

Colm grins. “I opted for top shelf.”

Hattie smiles in spite of the undercurrent of tension running through her. Being with the three of them is intoxicating. It’s like rewinding to a better time. Like a second chance.

Dustin pours them each more wine and they move into the living room. The house is an open concept two-story with an attached garage, which must have cost a fortune in this neighborhood, but between the wealth Dustin came from and what he’s built on his own, it probably feels very reasonable to him.

Hattie watches Dustin as they chat. His body language, how his eyes move. The way he touches Leah so casually. He has a life anyone would be envious of.

But there had been a time Dustin had envied Tommy. And envy could do terrible things to a person. Make them do terrible things.

“Hattie? You okay?” Colm’s watching her, eyebrows raised.

“Sorry. Was off in my own little world.”

“Probably not used to being called by your own name anymore,” Dustin says into his wineglass. Leah shoots him a look.

“No, you’re probably right,” Hattie says. “It takes a lot of effort to be someone else. But I don’t have to tell any of you that.”

“Except for Colm,” Dustin says, and Hattie realizes he’s fairly drunk. “Didn’t change a thing. You’re still you, right, buddy?”

Colm smiles but it doesn’t touch his eyes. “As much as I can be.”

Leah lightly claps her hands once, trying to break the taut moment. “Colm, tell us about the project you started at the university.”

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing.” Leah turns to Hattie. “Our boy here created a program and raised funding for underprivileged kids to visit and utilize the university’s observatory.”

“That’s amazing!”

Blush creeps up from Colm’s collar. “It wasn’t just me, I had a lot of help.”

“But it was your idea,” Leah prods.

“Well, yes. I got thinking about how much I loved astronomy as a kid and always wanted a telescope of my own but never got one. I thought there were probably a lot of other kids like me.”

“You’re a damn saint, my man,” Dustin says, nudging Colm with an elbow.

“We did our first viewing with a class at the end of last month. The kids were all excited. It was pretty fun.”

They fall quiet. Hattie waits a beat before asking, “What night was it out of curiosity?”

“The viewing?” Colm asks. “I think it was the twenty-eighth or twenty-ninth. Why?”

“Just wondering. The weather was cloudy in my neck of the woods. It was clear there?”

Colm gives her a slightly odd look. “Mostly. Enough so to observe.”

“How about you two?” she says, plunging on with a spike of adrenaline. “How did you spend Halloween?”

“Home,” Dustin says. “Well, I was home—Leah visited her parents that week.”

“How are they?”

“Good,” Leah says. “Now that they’re both retired they’re driving each other crazy, but good.”

“So, you were here all alone for the week?” Hattie says to Dustin.

His gaze is slowly becoming bloodshot. “Yeah. Why?”

She shrugs. “Guessing it was lonely.”

“It was. We should get a dog. A guard dog.” He says the last almost to himself.

“D,” Leah hisses.

“What?”

“Could I use your bathroom?” Hattie says, rising.

“Sure, we’re redoing the main floor’s so use the one upstairs—it’s the first door on the right,” Leah says.

There’s a low rumble of conversation as she reaches the second floor. Probably Leah chastising Dustin for his not-so-subtle comments about Tommy. She’s past caring about Dustin’s resentment—real or otherwise. The attempt at pinpointing each of their whereabouts on the night Eeling died was clumsy and ultimately fruitless. She can’t come right out and ask them where they were, and going behind their backs to find out would probably spook one or all of them.

And that’s the last thing she wants.

Hattie pauses at the bathroom and glances down the hall at the other two doors. She listens to the continued voices downstairs and hurries to the nearest room.

It’s Leah and Dustin’s.

A king-size bed takes up the bulk of the space, bedside tables to either side holding matching lamps. There’s an attached bath and walk-in closet along with one window looking out at the street below. Under the window is a small desk.

Before she can consider what she’s doing Hattie goes to the desk and begins pulling open drawers. Stationery, pens, scissors, a stapler. She has no idea what she’s looking for—a diary? Who keeps one of those anymore? A calendar marked with “kill meddlesome journalist” on the twenty-eighth of last month?

She slides the drawer she’s looking through shut and straightens. Nothing’s jumped out at her, not that she expected it to. A photograph to one side of the window catches her attention. It’s of Dustin standing beside an older man on some kind of stage, their hands clasped in a cross-body bro-handshake so they can both face the camera. Dustin looks incredibly young, his grin turned up to one hundred. There’s a plaque of some kind in his free hand she can just barely read—2019 Employee of the Year. A banner hangs behind the two men, only part of a word visible—Clev.

The stairs creak as someone comes up them.

Panic surges through her. She starts for the door, then halts, glancing back to make sure she didn’t leave any drawers open.

“Hattie?” Leah’s voice comes from very close in the hall.

She gathers herself and steps out of the bedroom. Leah’s standing in front of the open bathroom door and startles as Hattie emerges. “Sorry,” she says before the younger woman can ask what the hell she was doing in her bedroom. “I got turned around and then thought for a second you meant the bathroom in your bedroom.” She laughs and it sounds high and erratic. “Which didn’t make any sense once I thought about it. It’s a good thing I didn’t drive, I think I had a little too much wine.”

Leah comes closer with a quizzical look, which fades as she glances down the stairs. “You’re not the only one who had too much. I’m sorry about him.”

“It’s okay, I get it.”

“He’s been so . . .”

“So what?”

Leah shoots another look downstairs, then motions to the bedroom. When they’re inside Leah closes the door partway. “He’s been really on edge since that writer came by. Jumpy and . . . weird.”

“Weird how?”

“I don’t know, just . . . off. Distant. Like he’s constantly somewhere else. I’ve tried talking to him about it, but he just gets upset and shuts down.”

“Did you talk to him the week you were at your parents’?”

“Yeah. We texted every day. Why?”

“Do you know if he was in town the whole time?”

A crease appears between Leah’s eyes. “Why? What’s this about?”

“Probably nothing. I’m—” She wrestles with how much to say. What Leah will accept. “Eeling spoke to some people who knew Dustin and his family. He asked them about Alicia passing away.”

The crease deepens. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“I guess I’m concerned about him. About all of you. Talking about . . . everything has stirred up all these old feelings. Things that I thought were settled.” She pauses. “Did Cheryl Barton ever threaten you?”

Leah’s shoulders stiffen. “Oh God, I’d forgotten about that. It was a stupid argument. Cheryl knew Tommy and I were getting back together, and she was really upset. I don’t even remember what she said. It was nothing.”

Hattie waits for her to say more but Leah turns and moves to the nearest bedside table and draws out a stack of envelopes bound by a paper clip. She hands them to Hattie. “The Crawfords sent them to the adoption agency for a while until I told them to stop. It was just too—” She smiles but there are sudden tears standing in her eyes. Hattie opens the first envelope and draws out a letter along with several photos of a baby boy swaddled in a blanket with elephants printed on it. She recognizes both the handwriting and the baby. There are more than a dozen letters from Wendy detailing Julian’s first year. When Hattie looks up tears are running in slow tracks down Leah’s face.

“Would you like to see a recent picture of him?” Hattie asks.

Leah sniffles and looks out the window. “Before the writer came to see us I think I would’ve said no. But now . . .” She takes a breath and nods.

Hattie pulls out her phone and finds a picture of Julian she’d taken just as the leaves were turning. She hands it to Leah and watches emotion flicker across her features like a storm in a summer night sky.

“You’re right,” Leah says, her voice cracking. “He’s beautiful.” She leans into Hattie and they hold one another. “How can you miss someone you don’t really know?”

Hattie starts to reply but finds she can’t. She has no answer.

61

When they come back downstairs the house is empty.

“They must be in the garage,” Leah says. Her face is still blotchy from crying but she looks steady again. “D’s got an old motorcycle he’s fixing up. He bought it when we were still in college but now he’s got the space to work on it. He says we’re going to go on a cross-country trip when it’s done.” A flare of happiness in her gaze fading as quickly as it came.

“Are you okay, honey?”

“I’m fine. Go hang out with the boys—I’ll clean up these dishes quick, then join you.”

Hattie lingers, watching her, then goes out through the entryway to the attached garage.

It smells nothing like Ed’s workshop. No sawdust or oil. Just fresh paint and an undertone of spray lubricant. The space is clean and a tidy toolbox sits near the back wall beside a spotless workbench. Dustin’s car is parked nearest to the door and on the other side is an Indian motorcycle exploded neatly on a tarp. Dustin and Colm stand beside it like hunters over a fresh kill, sipping beers.

“Looks like a project,” she says.

“Keeps me busy,” Dustin says. “Figuring it out as I go.”

“I told him it would be easier to just buy a bike that runs,” Colm says.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Dustin replies, slurring a little. “You only figure things out when you take them apart.”

They fall silent. Colm tips his beer bottle to the side. “Another?” he asks Dustin.

“You know it.”

“Hattie?”

“I’m good, thanks.”

When Colm goes inside Hattie circles the bike. “Ed had a motorcycle when we first started dating.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah. He got rid of it, though.”

“Why?”

“Sold it to buy me this,” she says, holding up the ring on her left hand.

“Well . . .” Dustin props himself against the workbench. “That was a pretty good trade then.”

She leans beside him, both of them facing the deconstructed bike. “Leah says you’ve been stressed lately.”

Dustin doesn’t reply for so long she doesn’t think he’s going to. “Just work,” he finally offers.

“Nothing to do with the writer?”

“No.” He turns and busies himself with wiping down the clean workbench.

“I wanted to kill him when he showed up and forced me to talk about Tommy.” Dustin pauses, then continues cleaning. “It was so hard going back and thinking about everything. It doesn’t get any easier.”

“Listen.” Dustin throws the paper towel he was using in a trash bin. “I know you think we’ve got some magical bond since this fucked-up thing happened to all of us, but Leah and I are trying to move on. We don’t want to talk about it.”

“Both of you, or just you?” He shakes his head and turns away. “I know how you feel—”

“No, you don’t!” He faces her, his features an ugly mix of rage and sorrow. She draws back a step. “You didn’t testify against him. You’re not marrying his girlfriend. You’re not living his life.” He’s breathing hard, chest heaving. “You’re not waiting to wake up some night with him standing over you ready to take it all away.” He bares his teeth as if biting back something more, then stalks past her. She has to fight shrinking away from him as he passes.

In the entryway he pushes by Colm who’s returning with the drinks and they watch him retreat until he’s out of sight.

62

“It’s not your fault.”

Hattie breaks free of the reverie she’s been mired in since leaving Dustin and Leah’s and glances at Colm.

He’s a deeper shadow in the driver’s seat, coming into focus, then receding with each passing streetlight. They’re on their way to the train station, having ridden in silence until now. “He gets like this every so often.”

“You overheard everything, then?”

“Enough.”

“Leah said he’s been really distant since Eeling came to see them.”

“Yeah, she mentioned that.”

She touches his arm. “I’m glad she has you to talk to.” He smiles faintly. “D hasn’t said anything to you personally?”

“No. But we’ve known each other long enough I can read him. Know when to say something and when not to.”

“I guess I’ve lost that talent,” she says, studying the evening streets gliding past.

“The holidays are always rough. You can’t help but remember.”

“No, you can’t.” They ride in silence for a time, traffic slowing to a crawl. “Did Dustin ever write any poetry?”

“Poetry?”

“Yeah, like in high school?”

“No. He was into cars and sports, but writing—not so much. Leah dabbled for a while, though. She won that contest our junior year, remember? Got her poem published in a state’s best compilation or something.”

She does recall that now. How excited Leah was about the publication, and how quickly she lost interest directly after. “I wonder why she stopped.”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s really true.”

“What is?”

“That people change.”

Creatures of habit.

“What was that?” Colm asks, and she’s taken aback to have spoken aloud again without meaning to.

“Nothing. Old lady talking to herself.”

“They say it’s a sign of intelligence.”

“Who says?”

“People who talk to themselves, I suppose.”

Traffic picks up speed again and she studies his outline against the cityscape. “I’m sorry if we failed you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ed and I. We always tried to be there for you kids, but we . . . we never really asked you about your childhood.”

He’s a long time answering. “There wasn’t much to tell.”

“There were rumors.” When he doesn’t react, she goes on. “Your mother—”

“My mother was an addict.” His hands flex on the steering wheel. “But there were other people who were there for me. I wasn’t with her much near the end, and that’s a good thing.”

She weighs her next words. “When she passed, were you—”

“I was with my aunt. I never got to say goodbye.”

He hits the turn signal and veers sharply into a gas station before she can say anything else. He parks and climbs out and begins filling the car. Night air combs back his hair as he stares off down the highway. His lips move soundlessly. When the tank’s full he strides into the gas station. Hattie’s fingers twine and release over and over. Her gaze slides to the digital screen in the dash where their current route to the train station is displayed. She thinks for a moment, then sits forward and taps the screen.

It takes her several attempts to navigate to the page where past trips are stored in the GPS. She makes sure Colm is still inside the store, then hits the “View” button. The only saved trip is the route from Colm’s address to Dustin and Leah’s. She makes sure she’s still alone and goes back a page, scrolling down until “My Routes” appears. She taps it. A password input box fills up the screen. She hesitates, then taps in “1234” and hits “Enter.” The screen blinks negatively and the box empties. She tries “4321.” Another denial. She glances over the dash.

Colm’s crossing the parking lot toward the car.

She touches the back arrow but the password box remains. “Shit,” she breathes, leaning closer. He’s ten steps away, opening a bottle of water as he nears. At the bottom of the display is a “Cancel” option. She punches it as Colm pulls the driver’s door open. The screen flits back to the main menu page, but then he’s sliding into the seat, frowning at the screen, then at her.

“Sorry.” She shakes her head and laughs. “I was trying to turn on some music.”

Colm studies her, then taps the console below the screen. Music spills from the speakers.

It’s “Everlasting Light” by the Black Keys.

She’s not surprised.

63

Hattie stands by the sea watching the delicate flicker of stars.

It was almost midnight by the time she pulled the 4Runner into the yard. The train ride back north was uneventful and she’d been so lost in thought she almost forgot her ritual of taking a deviated route home in case someone was following her.

Not someone. Tommy.

When she made her way toward the darkened cottage, feeling every inch of the day’s travel, something called her to bypass it and walk to the cove’s edge.

The night is clear and cold, a bloated silver moon ascending the sky.

The constellations turn along with her thoughts.

All three of them lied.

That much she knows. But why is another question entirely. Leah might be embarrassed by what she’d said to inflame Cheryl’s response given the other woman had been killed shortly thereafter. And Dustin is obviously afraid of Tommy’s retribution, except she could sense he was holding something else back as well. Colm’s lie was the most prominent, yet she could understand it given the traumatic surroundings of his mother’s death.

She crosses her arms, feeling the press of frustration as much as the cold.

The private investigator had secretly looked into all three of them given her and Ed’s initial refusal to accept Tommy’s guilt, but each of the kids had alibis for the time of Cheryl’s murder. Yet Eeling had apparently been convinced one of them set Tommy up since they’d been the focus of his interviews and investigation. She’d set out that morning to try determining whether there was any merit to the theory and had only succeeded in creating more uncertainty.

She would’ve made a lousy cop.

Thinking of lousy cops, the mention of photos from Ramsby in Eeling’s files resurfaces again. What they’re of, she has no clue but it feels like they’re the instrument to cut through this Gordian knot.

Hattie turns to go inside, the chill air finally worming its way to her center, but pauses, considering a lingering feeling that’s trailed her all the way home from Boston.

Because she had noticed something while at Dustin and Leah’s, something one of them said or did or perhaps something she saw that’s catching in her mind like a mental burr. She can almost touch the edges of it before it slips maddeningly away. But the harder she tries to grasp it the further it retreats.

“Let it go, and it’ll come back,” she says, making her way to the house. Sage advice for an otherwise disappointing day.

She’s just mounting the stairs and dragging out her keys when her phone rings. The number is foreign and there’s a flicker of fearful anticipation as she answers that only silence will meet her, that Tommy has finally found her and is calling her new number. But the voice that comes through is familiar, though she can’t place it for a second.

“Mary? Sorry to call you so late—I was just going to leave a message.”

“Adam?”

“Yeah, did I wake you?”

“No, it’s fine. Is everything all right?”

A long sigh. “No. It’s Dad.”

Sloan. Hattie braces one hand against the doorjamb. “Is he okay?”

“He had a heart attack.” Adam pauses and in it she can hear the quiet chatter of voices and squeak of shoes on polished floor. “They’re not sure he’s going to make it.”

64

She’s hated hospitals her entire life.

She supposes it stems from her father’s prolonged illness and subsequent death, but even before that she never fully trusted the buildings themselves. They seemed to harbor a quiet promise in their long hallways and stuffy offices. Bad news and sadness live here. Yes, new life also came into being within the walls, but primarily they were places of woe.

Hattie feels it all the more as she steps off the second-floor elevator and spots Adam waiting at the far end of the corridor. He’s a tall, handsome man in his early fifties with Sloan’s nose and stripes of gray invading his hairline at the temples. He’s been crying. He sweeps her into a quick embrace as she approaches, and though she’d laughed with him over pie and coffee less than seventy-two hours ago he looks ten years older.

“Thanks for coming, you really didn’t have to,” he says, releasing her.

She glances down the next hallway. “How is he?” They begin walking past closed doorways, a nurses’ station approaching on the left.

“He’s out of surgery. They cleared a major blockage and put in four stents. But it’s . . . it’s touch and go at this point.”

She laces her fingers through his and squeezes. “Your dad is the toughest person I know.”

Adam blinks rapidly and nods. “He’s in here.”

They angle past the nurses’ station into a low-lit room with a large bed set in its middle. Sloan lies in its center looking like a child in its sprawl. Tubes spring from him like growths and the loose, ill-fitting smock he wears reveals the sagging folds of his neck and sunken chest. She’s so used to his distracted wit and seeing him with a book in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other, it’s almost like this is another person she doesn’t know at all.

Hattie takes one of Sloan’s hands. It’s rough and cool, the skin on the back blood-bruised from an IV. His mouth is partially open, and his hair is uncombed.

She thinks if he could see himself now the indignity of it all would bother him the most.

She has to swallow the tightness in her throat before she can speak. “Sloan, it’s Mary. I’m here with Adam. You’re going to be okay.”

Adam moves to the other side of the bed and smooths his father’s hair back from his lined brow. The gesture is so tender her throat constricts again. “Mary’s right, Dad. The doctors did a damn good job and you’re going to be back up and around in no time. You have to be because you haven’t even gone through that last box of books I brought you.” His voice fails him and he shakes his head.

They stay that way for a time. A nurse comes in to check Sloan’s vitals and gives them a radiant smile along with a thumbs-up before exiting.

Adam releases a quiet laugh. “I know what he’d say right now if he was awake. He’d say we should’ve just let him go where he was in the library, surrounded by all his books.”

“I wish he would’ve let me bring him in earlier.”

“He’s stubborn, that’s for sure. Hear that, Dad? You’re a stubborn old bird.” Adam squeezes Sloan’s hand and they fall silent, the beep and wheeze of machines the only sounds.

“My mom never forgave me for what happened to Nick,” Adam says quietly. “She left six months after he drowned. I overheard her telling Dad she couldn’t stand to look at me anymore.” Hattie reaches across the bed and touches his shoulder. He doesn’t seem to notice. “But Dad . . . he never made me feel like it was my fault. Not ever. That kind of love is salvation.”

Hattie thinks of the cove then, how it had swallowed Nicky and never given him back. How dark it was at night and how it seemed to go on forever. And she sees Tommy in that dark, lost and wandering alone.

“I’m sorry to do this, but Mr. Ballard needs his rest,” the nurse says from the doorway. Hattie murmurs a quiet goodbye and kisses Sloan’s cheek, the skin paper smooth and smelling of ghostly aftershave. Out in the hallway Adam walks beside her toward the elevator.

“Do they have a place for you to stay here?” she asks.

“They’re bringing in a cot to put in his room.”

“I’ll check in with you tomorrow. Let me know if there’s anything you need.”

“I will.”

“And let me know if there’s any change.”

Adam nods. “If he makes it through this I’m getting him a damn cell phone no matter what he says. And a panic button he can wear around his neck.”

She’s about to call the elevator when something occurs to her. “Who found him? His housekeeper?”

“No one. He called 911 before he collapsed. A first responder was there in about ten minutes. The doctor said if he hadn’t called when he did, he wouldn’t have made it.”

Hattie stills. “You said he was in the library?”

“Yeah. He’d pulled over one of the bookcases, either falling or trying to get up.”

She recedes for a moment, coming back as Adam says something she doesn’t fully hear. “Sorry, what did you say?”

“I said he must’ve felt it coming.”

Storm coming.

“Yeah,” she says, her own voice sounding like it’s at the other end of a long tunnel. “He must have.”

65

It’s half past three in the morning when she gets home.

She doesn’t recall the drive at all—might as well have been asleep with someone else at the wheel. Only when the yard comes into view does she realize where she is.

Inside she sits at the table, fingers drumming a slow beat. She should go to bed but despite the lateness, or earliness, she’s wired. Couldn’t close her eyes if she tried.

What kind of person could do such a thing?

During Tommy’s trial she’d made the mistake of reading an article covering the proceedings, and someone had posted the comment that stayed with her from that moment on.

She’d asked herself the same question again and again and again.

What kind of person did she raise?

Hattie makes her way to the den and looks across the bay to Sloan’s. A few lights are still burning there. It’s like a beacon on the otherwise darkened shore. Calling her.

Her eyes unfocus and she sinks into herself. The shifting she’s felt over the last weeks slows, settling into a new shape. She sees it fully.

She goes back through the cottage, grabbing her keys on the way. She’s at the door, hand on the knob, when a sound stops her.

Her old phone is ringing.

Its chime echoes out from her room, sending a ripple of gooseflesh across her body. She starts to leave anyway, but stops, listening to the ringing. If Sloan’s house is a beacon, the phone is a siren’s song.

She goes to her room, taking the phone from the drawer and studying the number she knows will be there on the screen. Before the ringing can end, she answers.

A living silence on the other end.

What kind of person could do such a thing?

She’s pondered this for years. Crucified herself for whatever failings she passed on to Tommy. Whatever hand she had in the violence he doled out. Had hope stripped away like boards from a condemned building. She’s lived for eight years in the shadow of his destruction and her own guilt.

No more.

“Who is this?” she says.

There’s a quiet inhale, then the line goes dead.

66

Sloan’s house is unlocked.

She steps into the warmth, shutting the door against the wind. The telltale signs of other people in her friend’s messily curated living space strike her first.

Boot prints in the entryway. A rug folded over itself. The kitchen door halfway shut.

None of them interest her.

She’s been pondering one thing and one thing only since leaving the hospital. It followed her all the way home. Followed her to this moment. Something so trivial that it might change everything.

Had Sloan gotten a cordless telephone?

She knows he’s refused Adam’s (and her own) insistence on getting a cell, but she wonders if he finally caved to the convenience of trading his corded landline for something more modern.

The far end of the kitchen is dark, and she turns on the undercabinet lights, breath catching in her chest in anticipation.

The same yellowed, corded telephone sits neatly at the end of the counter atop the most current phone book. She picks up the handset and listens to the buzzing dial tone, then replaces it.

She goes from the kitchen to the hallway, counting her steps, all the way to the library, where most of the lights are on reflecting her in the dark-mirrored windows.

Twelve paces. Thirty-six feet, give or take. Quite a distance to walk for a man having a massive heart attack.

Without thinking, she rights the low bookcase that’s been pulled over, spilling its knowledge on the wood floor. She restacks the books, one after another, until they’re all where they should be. Then she stands, turning slowly in the space.

And listens.

The wind snagging on the corners of the house.

Distant lap of wave on stone.

Her pulse thudding twice for every tick of the wall clock.

Hattie shuts off the lights and retraces her steps to the kitchen and stands looking into the length of the house toward the back staircase. She thinks of the food she’s brought Sloan and how much more he’s eaten as of late. She recalls his complaints of the Earnshaws’ groundskeeper prowling outside. And then there’s the intermittent feeling of being watched even when she’s alone.

Sloan said the house was haunted like all the others on the coast. But no house is like this one.

She imagines how loud it must have been when Sloan fell and pulled the bookcase over. How he might’ve cried out before losing consciousness. And who might have heard that cry.

The wind gusts hard and the structure shifts, joints popping and resettling.

What kind of person could do such a thing?

She stares into the dark, trying to see, trying to envision someone hearing an old man dying and coming to help. Even if it risked his own safety. His own discovery.

What kind of person?

Hattie swallows dryly, trying to get herself to say the single word she’s most afraid to. And finally, she does.

“Tommy?”

Despite the fear and insanity of it all, her voice is strong and his name courses through the halls and up the stairs. It fills the house and comes back to her. She waits, heart teetering on the promise of a reply.

But there is none.

She’s just an aging woman lying to herself in the dark.

The tension of the moment gradually ebbs and she sees it for what it is. False hope brought on by an overzealous writer grasping at straws and trying not to slip into the widening fault lines of his own life. Nothing more.

She would laugh if she could but there’s nothing funny about how empty she feels.

Hattie turns to go.

A floorboard creaks overhead.

She pauses, sure it’s the wind again, but then another follows. And another. Trailing to the far end of the house toward the back stairway.

She turns fully, facing the dark length of the rooms, facing into the past, into what’s to come, fearing she’s not strong enough as footsteps descend the far stairs, one at a time like a contemplation of their own.

A shadow materializes and she blinks, sure it will vanish in the space between her heartbeats, but it remains. It takes a tentative step, then another into a shaft of moonglow.

There is just enough light to make out stained work pants and a threadbare sweater stretched at the cuffs and neckline. An untrimmed beard hanging down almost to the breastbone with a spectacularly broken nose folded flatly to one side above it. Hair like greasy curtains drapes onto stooped shoulders.

And eyes she would know anywhere watching her.

“Tommy,” she whispers before the world tips on its side and blackens to nothing.

Part 5

The Madness of Hope

67

Hattie catches herself in mid-faint before she can fully collapse.

Her vision floods back as she latches on to the nearest kitchen counter, slamming hard against it but staying mostly upright.

Hands are suddenly there on her shoulders, steadying her, but she shrinks away and rebounds off the doorjamb.

Tommy stands in the middle of the kitchen, palms up.

He takes a step back.

They remain that way for a second. For a century.

Her son. She’s looking at her son.

There’s a magnetic polarity within her switching back and forth. She wants to rush forward and put her arms around him to make sure he’s real, and at the same time can’t get herself to go any closer because she’s—

Afraid. I’m still afraid of him.

Tommy appears equally torn. He folds his hands together, then draws them apart. Looks at her, then glances immediately away, as if he can’t stand the eye contact.

“Sorry—” he finally says, clearing his throat. His voice sounds like a rusty can being opened. “I didn’t mean to . . .” He looks at the floor, hair obscuring his face, and she notices he’s scarecrow-thin. The lean muscle of his youth eroded by years on the run.

Tears well in her eyes and she blinks them back, motioning to the dining room table. “Can we sit?” He shuffles to a chair and she sits opposite him after turning on a single light over the kitchen sink. It’s just enough illumination for them to see one another without detail. Too many details might break her right now.

Tommy runs one long fingernail in a groove on the table, gaze downcast. “How did you know?”

“The 911 call. Nothing else made sense.” His head dips lower. “Thank you. For saving him.”

Tommy looks up. “He’s okay?”

“He’s not out of the woods yet, but I think he’s going to make it.”

He absorbs this. “I did CPR until I heard a car pull up. It was all I could think to do.”

They fall quiet for a time. The wind moans in the eaves.

“How—” The unreality washes over her and she has to pause before she can go on. “How long have you been here?”

“Since May.”

Seven months. “And you’ve been upstairs the whole time?”

“Mostly. The storage room has access to the attic. I hide there whenever someone else is in the house.” She relives the moment weeks ago when bringing the box of books down for Sloan—the storage room’s door open instead of shut, the fleeting sense of another’s presence. “Otherwise I sleep in one of the spare rooms. He doesn’t come upstairs very often. And I go out sometimes at night.”

Hattie studies him. “It was you that night outside my house.” He doesn’t reply, only stares at the tabletop. “How did you find me?”

“I didn’t find you.”

It takes her a second to understand. “But how—”

“The adoption agency.”

She frowns. “Those records are sealed. How did you . . .”

“Leah’s parents. I knew they’d push her to use the agency associated with their church. There’s an office in the church’s basement. I went to a service and hid when it was over. Waited until the middle of the night and found Leah’s file. Then walked out the next day after they reopened.”

She sits back in her chair, stunned. “Why did you want to find him?”

This finally gets him to glance up, but he looks away just as quickly. “I was in New Mexico for over a year. Was living in some people’s shed for a while who weren’t home very often. Got a job working construction and made enough to rent a room for cash. Things were as good as they had been since . . . Anyway, I got recognized and had to run again. Except I didn’t have it in me. I was so . . . tired. I wanted it to be over.” He faces toward the Crawfords’, some unnameable new look in his eyes. “But I wanted to see him before.” His voice quavers and he clears his throat. “I was going to walk into the ocean. Let the current carry me away. But after I saw him, I couldn’t get myself to.” He offers half a shrug. “Since then, it’s been day to day.”

He falls silent. It’s the longest he’s talked, and he seems wearied by it.

Hattie searches for something to say but fails. It’s all too huge. No words will encompass the last fifteen minutes, let alone the last eight years. It stands between them like an iron door she’s not sure can be reopened.

“I’m glad Sloan’s alive,” Tommy finally says. “I like him. I don’t really know him, but I listen to him, listen to his life.” A long pause. “He sings when no one’s here.”

Hattie tries to picture Sloan singing and fails. “Really?” A nod. “Is he any good?” Tommy winces. She can’t help but laugh and he shoots her the briefest of smiles that takes her breath away. It’s like they’ve been picked up and dropped into a moment a decade ago.

She quiets, swallowing back fearful anticipation. “Tommy, I—”

He shakes his head, cutting her off. “Not now. I can’t. I just need to know one thing. Do you—”

But she’s already reaching out to take his hand whether he lets her or not. He doesn’t pull away even though she doesn’t deserve to ever touch him again, and she’s grateful. Because she needs him to know she’s here.

She’s here and she believes him.

When she can speak again, she says, “Come on. Let’s go home.”

68

She unlocks the cottage and lets him inside first.

Tommy enters cautiously and looks around, taking in the space. She’s reminded of a skittish animal in unfamiliar territory awaiting jaws to suddenly loom from the dark and close around its neck. He pokes his head into each room, eyes flitting from place to place. “Looks different from inside,” is all he says.

In the bathroom she lays out some of Sloan’s clothes she borrowed before they left. While Tommy showers she cooks eggs, bacon, and hash browns along with several pieces of toast. He takes his time in the shower and when he steps out—hair washed, beard clean, and dressed in fresh clothes—he looks remade.

At first, he picks at the food, then eats ravenously. She watches, holding a cup of steaming tea.

It’s dawn when she gets him settled in the guest room. She begins to pull the door closed but leaves it partially open instead and stands in the hallway. It’s only a few minutes before his breathing deepens. She marvels at how his light snoring is the same as Julian’s. When she’s sure he’s fully asleep she eases silently into the room and stands looking at him.

His face is lined where it has no right to be. It’s a road map of pain she can only guess at. The slant of his broken nose makes her eyes prickle with tears, but he is here, and he is as whole as he can be.

Hattie reaches out to brush some hair off his forehead but stops herself. Not yet. Not yet.

She settles for pulling his blanket a little higher. He doesn’t stir at all.

Her bedroom is beginning to lighten. It’s going to be a beautiful day. She lies down but won’t sleep. She’ll just rest for a minute.

“Our boy is home,” she says, speaking to Ed. The sun flares, brightening the room with light particular to Atlantic coast mornings. She breathes it in and closes her eyes. “I won’t let him go again,” she murmurs as sleep takes her hand and begins leading her away. “I promise.”

She swears there’s a response and the softest brush of lips on her brow, but then she’s gone.

69

The next days pass in a cadence of cautious reacquaintance.

They eat meals together and take their coffee in the den afterward—the blinds drawn in case anyone’s looking in from the seaward side. Tommy is entranced by the stove and watches the flames dance for hours at a time, gaze fixed on some inner distance. They speak very little, simply acclimating to one another’s presence. There are millions of things to say but she has no idea how to begin.

It’s because you don’t know him. Not who he is now.

That’s so true it hurts.

So she does the only thing she can. She waits.

When they’re not eating or sitting quietly, Tommy sleeps. Sometimes for more than twelve hours. At first it’s concerning, but when she stops to think about it, it makes sense. He’s catching up on years of broken nights and uneasy rest. It’s also heartening to know he feels safe enough to let his guard down.

It snows on the third day, light flakes drifting and disappearing almost as soon as they touch the ground. Hattie sets her laptop on the kitchen table open to Eeling’s files, the notebook next to it. She scrawls a quick message to Tommy who’s still sleeping and goes to visit Sloan.

The old man isn’t awake, but his condition has been reduced from critical to stable. When she says his name, his eyes move behind their sunken lids.

She stops briefly at the market and an outdoor outfitter on the way back, and when she gets home there’s a business card stuck in the doorframe. Her heart stutters at the sight of Sheriff Altringer’s name and number. Call when you get time is written on the back. She finds Tommy in the den, her laptop propped on his knees, the notebook beside him.

He starts to speak when she comes into the room, but she holds out the business card. “Did you see the man who left this?”

“No. I must’ve been asleep.”

“Good,” she murmurs, turning the card over.

“What is this?” Tommy asks, gesturing to the laptop and notes.

Hattie feeds a log to the fire and sits across from him. “Are you comfortable?”

“Why?”

“Because it’s a long story.”

70

When she finishes dusk has fallen and the snow’s been replaced by a dry, cold wind.

Tommy sits with his chin nearly to his chest and has been this way for the majority of her explanation, stopping her only to clarify one point or another. She would say he’s fallen asleep again if not for the steady tap of one finger against his thigh.

“So you think,” he says finally, “either Leah, Colm, or Dustin did this to me?”

She hasn’t said this aloud before. Even to herself. “Yes.”

“And you think one of them killed this writer and made it look like suicide?”

“Yes. To keep him from gathering the last pieces of evidence that could expose them.”

“The photos that Ramsby said he was going to send this Eeling.”

“Right.”

“But you don’t know what they’re of.”

“No, but I think they have something to do with the mistake whoever framed you made.” Hattie picks up the laptop and opens it. “There’s a name in here without any other information tied to it—Elle Marks.” She turns the screen toward him, revealing the woman’s picture. From the look on his face she guesses he’s thinking the same thing she did the first time she saw Elle Marks. She looks a lot like the other victims. “I did some research on her. She lived in Kingland, Pennsylvania, in 2018.”

Tommy leans forward. “Kingland, that’s only—”

“Two hours from your college campus. I mapped it. Elle Marks was twenty-nine at the time, finishing her master’s in ecology and working as a restaurant manager. She lived alone in a house in one of Kingland’s west neighborhoods. Elle woke one night to a sound and when she went to investigate, she found someone wearing a mask and holding some sort of weapon in her living room. They attacked her and she fought with them. Besides being a graduate student and restaurant manager, Elle competed in martial arts—jujitsu specifically. In the interviews I read she said the fight was mostly a blur, but while they were struggling the intruder dropped the weapon and their mask came partway off. That’s when they fled. They grabbed their weapon and ran while Elle called the police.”

“Did she see their face?”

“Not enough for an ID. It was a man but that’s all she could say for sure.”

“And the weapon?”

“Some kind of pointed object. Probably a knife. But it could’ve been—”

“A wood awl,” Tommy says quietly, staring into the fire.

She waits a beat, then says, “Guess what the date of the attack was.” He shakes his head, waiting. “The morning of April twelfth.”

Tommy blinks. “Two days before Cheryl was killed.”

“Exactly.” She feels a thrum of excitement in spite of herself. “Elle Marks was supposed to be the Bedfellow’s fourth victim. I think the real killer panicked after the attack went sideways and they thought Elle might be able to ID them. So—”

“They killed Cheryl and framed me,” Tommy finishes, meeting her gaze. And there is such a blinding mixture of rage and betrayal in his eyes it’s like looking into the sun. “That’s why Cheryl didn’t fit the other victim profiles—she wasn’t ever a target; she was a decoy.”

“Right. And do you know what else was significant about the night Elle Marks was attacked?”

His brow furrows. “No,” he says at last.

“It was Dad’s birthday.” Slow realization enters his eyes. “You were with us that night.”

This more than anything in the files had solidified Tommy’s innocence for her. If Eeling was correct, and she’s come to believe more and more he was right about nearly everything, there was no way Tommy could have attacked Elle Marks. That evening lives in her memory because it had been the last night the three of them had been together before everything had fallen apart. And also because it had been Ed’s last birthday.

They sit in shared silence, listening to the wind making renewed assaults on the cottage.

“The Kingland PD never made the connection that Elle Marks was attacked by the Bedfellow,” she says. “I think the differences in Cheryl’s murder spurred Eeling into theorizing why such a meticulous killer would suddenly become so careless. My bet is he had a hunch and started searching for break-ins and assaults directly before Cheryl’s death and eventually landed on Elle Marks. Guessing he would have interviewed her, too, but she died in a car accident a few years ago.”

Tommy’s quiet for a long time before saying, “So the photos Ramsby was going to send must tie into Elle Marks somehow.”

“Yes.”

“But the photos aren’t in any of his files.”

“No.”

“Where do you think they are?”

She sighs. This is where the path forward is washed out. “They’re either in Eeling’s email or maybe Ramsby sent him physical copies.”

Tommy rises suddenly and strides into the kitchen. She follows.

He stands with his hands planted on the countertop, head hanging low, breathing deeply in through his nose and out his mouth, over and over. She waits until he straightens and turns to face her.

“It’s not hopeless,” she says. “I have some ideas about how to get the photos.”

“Hope,” he says as if speaking to himself. “The madness of hope.”

“What?”

He focuses on her. “It’s a poem Leah wrote in high school. I can’t remember anything else but the title. Over the years it kept repeating in my head. A moment of happiness. Whenever some light entered the world. The madness of hope.”

She doesn’t know what to say to that, so she stays silent.

He shakes his head slowly. “Say we get these photos and figure out who it was that framed me. It’s all conjecture. None of it will hold up in court. None of it matters.”

None of it matters.

She’s felt this way, too, but found the hidden truth within it. None of it matters, and all of it does.

“After your dad died and you were gone, I knew I had two options,” she says slowly. “I could end it all, or I could keep trying to live. The way I see it you have two options now too. One, you stay hidden here with me. You spend the rest of your life inside these walls, maybe going out sometimes at night. Watching your son grow up without ever speaking to him.” Tommy draws in a sudden breath as if he’s been struck. “Or two, we try to exonerate you. We find the person who stole your life, and we take it back.”

Tommy’s mouth quivers. He covers his eyes with one hand and begins to weep.

71

She cooks them supper.

Chicken fettuccine alfredo with garlic bread and steamed carrots. Tommy offers to help, and she sets him to peeling the carrots. She watches him out of the corner of her eye, waiting for the tears to return, but they’re gone for now. It took all her might not to go to him and hold him when he broke down, but it would have been wrong. Not the gesture but the timing.

She opens a bottle of wine she picked up at the market and offers him a glass.

“No thanks. The last time I drank was the night I got this,” he says, gesturing at his broken nose.

She pauses stirring the sauce. “Wanna tell me about it?”

He continues peeling the carrots and when he starts to talk she has to strain to hear him. “It was six months after I escaped. I was in Iowa. I found a partially full bottle of cheap vodka in a trash can and drank most of it in one sitting. Which is probably why I made the mistake of setting up a tent I’d stolen on the edge of a park. Someone must’ve seen it from the nearest walking trail and complained. I woke up to a bright light in my face and this voice telling me to get the fuck up. When I climbed out of the tent these two cops were standing there, hands on their guns, shouting questions at me. I didn’t say anything. Couldn’t, I was too scared. I thought, well, this is it. I’m caught again and I’m going back. I thought about running, but the way they were looking at me I kind of figured they’d shoot me if I did. So I stayed quiet. Then one of them hit me. My nose snapped and blood went down the back of my throat and I started choking and coughing. Finally threw up on myself. Bloody vodka mixed with what little I’d eaten. I think they were going to haul me in until that happened. One of them kicked me and said to be gone when the sun came up. The next day I was going to try resetting it in a gas station bathroom, but when I looked in the mirror I didn’t recognize myself for a second.” He pauses. “And I decided that was a good thing.”

Hattie draws in a deep, steadying breath and blinks until her vision clears. She starts to say the two words she’s been holding in and stops herself.

They eat at the table in their customary silence, but the atmosphere has shifted slightly. Aligning of wills can have that effect. She continues stealing glances at him whenever he’s not looking, feeding the ravenous thing inside her demanding the sight of him. To assure he’s real. That this is happening. It’s so unreal it could be a dream—one she doesn’t care to wake up from.

By the time they’re finished eating it’s full dark and the wind’s died down to a mutter.

“Would you like to go for a walk?” she asks. She’s afraid he’ll say no and the distance that’s been narrowing between them will widen again, but he dips his head and pulls on his freshly washed sweater along with the coat she bought for him that day in town.

And in the soft light of the entryway, despite the beard and slanted nose, he looks so much like Ed her heart overspills and breaks all at once.

They walk side by side through the dark. The wind is a symphony in the pine boughs. The moon hangs in the sky and floats on the water and it’s never looked more forlorn or beautiful.

It’s cold enough to ensure their solitude and they stand on the rocks overlooking the cove. Inches and miles apart. All the minutes upon hours upon weeks upon years stacked up until now. And every word she’s ever dreamed of saying locked tightly inside.

“There was this mountain lake in Montana I camped near,” he says, startling her out of her reverie. “The water was so clear you could see all the way to the bottom, see every rock. It was miles from anything. So quiet and still, it was like no one had ever been there before me. A moon like this came up and hung just over the mountaintop. It was probably the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, and I’d never felt more alone.”

Tentatively she threads her arm through his. He doesn’t pull away.

He’s quiet for a time, head bowed. “For a while I thought I was guilty too,” he says finally. “I couldn’t remember anything from the night Cheryl died. Only that we’d fought and said terrible things to each other.” He stares out across the water. “With all the evidence—I started to think I’d done it. And some nights I wondered if I’d killed those other people too. That I was broken in a way I didn’t even understand. I dreamed there was a secret man inside me who wanted to do those things, and he came out while I was sleeping. I think . . .” He clears his throat. She can barely hear him over the waves. “I think for a while I lost who I was.”

She understands the gift he’s given her, but it’s almost too vast to accept.

Hattie turns and hugs her son. Holds him as tightly as she can.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers—the two most important words she’s ever said finally free.

After a terrible interminable moment of nothing, he hugs her back.

72

“Who do you think it is?”

Hattie pauses in her washing of a saucepan. Tommy’s beside her, methodically drying each clean dish. Nothing else was said after their shared moment on the shoreline. There’s so much more that needs to be addressed, but for now it’s enough.

“Well, if we’re going by Eeling’s theory it’s the same person who attacked Elle Marks,” she replies. “She said it was a man, so that rules out Leah.”

“Did you ever really think it could be Leah?”

She considers this, scouring a plate. “Not really. No. Did you?”

“Never.”

His answer is almost too abrupt, but she doesn’t comment on it. “But you have thought about who it could be.”

A slow nod. “I had a lot of time to think.”

“And?”

“For a while I couldn’t fathom any of my friends doing this to me, let alone killing five other people. But a stranger didn’t make sense either. I had a lot of friends in high school and college, but there were only three I considered my best friends. They were the only ones who would’ve had access to my place and to Dad’s tools.”

“If we’re not considering Leah,” Hattie says quietly. “That leaves Dustin and Colm.”

“Dustin was always in love with Leah. It was there between us whenever we were together. He thought he did a good job at hiding it, but everyone knew. Even Leah. I wanted to talk to him about it but . . .” Tommy gives his head a quick shake.

“So you think it was Dustin?”

“No.”

She glances sharply at him. “You don’t?”

“No. I think it was Colm.” He sets the dish down he’s drying and faces her. “I never said anything when we were younger, but Colm was always . . . different.”

“I told you about his mother. What happened to him, what he went through.”

“I know. He told me some when we were little too. Not everything. He said his mom hurt him, but he never said anything about him being there when she died.”

“I’m sure it was really traumatic. When I asked him about it last weekend he lied and then shut down.”

“Exactly.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s a murderer.”

“No, but there were these moments when we were younger. He’d just go . . . blank. There’s no other way to explain it. We’d be in random places and he’d just lock up. Sometimes for a second and sometimes longer. It freaked all of us out. Then he’d snap out of it, and he’d pretend like it never happened.”

She thinks of her own lapses, the violence she’s hallucinated. “Stress and trauma can have very strange effects on people.”

“I understand that but—” Tommy rubs his forehead. “I never told you Colm used to wet the bed.”

“What?”

“When he would stay over at our house. Almost every time he’d wake me up early in the morning and we’d wash his blankets before you and Dad were up. I never said anything because he was so mortified. I felt bad for him. But now . . .”

She recalls the traits of burgeoning serial killers, traits she’d first tried applying to Tommy as a child, then to Julian. Bed-wetting past a certain age was one.

She sets the washrag down and dries her hands. “Colm had an alibi for the night Cheryl was killed. He was on a shift at that warehouse job. The private investigator we hired verified when he clocked in and out.”

“He could’ve slipped out and come back without anyone knowing,” Tommy says. “I visited him a couple times when he worked nights—there was basically no one else there.”

Hattie sits at the kitchen table. After a second Tommy joins her. “Dustin’s was the weakest alibi. His roommate said he heard him come in before the time Cheryl was murdered and never leave, but he could’ve been mistaken. Or lying.”

“Mom.” Her gaze snaps up to his. It’s the first time she’s been called that in over eight years. Her head’s suddenly floating. “I know you love Colm, and I know you resent Dustin for being with Leah.”

“That’s not—”

He holds up a hand to quiet her, then points at the nearest window. “Out there I had to rely on my instincts a lot. I’d get this edgy, crawling feeling and know something was wrong. That’s how I feel about Colm.”

She looks away, mind flailing for something to grasp. There’s nothing.

“What about the calls? When you thought it was me,” he asks.

It still sends a chill through her to think of all the times she answered the night calls, all the times she spoke to the living silence on the other end thinking it was Tommy. How wrong she’d been.

“What about them?”

“Is there anything else you can remember?”

“No. Just the one time. That one sound.” And for a moment there is a dizzying rush of approaching revelation as she hears it again. The jolting grind of motors echoing, as if they were within a cavernous space.

It’s so close she can almost see it.

Then it fades.

“What is it?” Tommy asks.

“Nothing. I don’t know.” But the memory has dredged up another thought with it. “There was something at Leah and Dustin’s, but I don’t know what it was. Something someone said or something I saw.” She grunts in frustration.

“Let it go, and it’ll come back. Dad used to say that, remember?”

It’s a second before she can reply. “I remember.”

A distance gathers in his eyes. “I never . . . got to visit him. After this is over, I’d like to.”

She touches his hand. “We’ll go together.”

73

In her past life when there was an unpleasant chore to do, whether at school or home, she made it a point to take care of it first thing in the morning so it wouldn’t hang over the rest of her day. She decides talking with Sheriff Altringer qualifies as unpleasant, so she calls him the next morning at eight a.m. on the dot.

“Altringer,” he answers gruffly, as if annoyed anyone would call so early.

“Sheriff, this is Mary Whittaker. I see you stopped by yesterday; sorry I missed you.”

“Mary, thanks for calling back. Though I figured I’d hear from you last night. Out late?”

“No.” She listens with increasing satisfaction to the expectant silence.

“Oh. Well then, I wanted to chat again about our friend Ross Eeling. Learned a bit more since we last spoke.” Here it is. He found something. She swallows her heart, which is beating in the back of her throat. “Far as I can tell, you’re the only person he interviewed in the area.”

“Really?”

“That’s right. In fact, other than the café where he had breakfast a few times, you seem to be the only person he spoke to, period.”

“Well, that’s very strange.”

“I’d have to agree.”

Now it’s her turn to squirm in the silence.

“I wish I could help more but—”

“Do you?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Do you wish you could help more? Because I’m getting the distinct feeling it’s the opposite, Mary.”

“No, not at all. I told you all I know. If this man was doing something illegal I have no knowledge of it.”

“What town did you say you were from in California?”

“I didn’t.”

“I know you didn’t, so I’ll phrase it a different way. What town in California are you from, Mary?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Because I did a little digging and there’re a lot of Mary Whittakers who live or lived in California, but I’ve yet to come across you.”

“Is there some sort of crime that’s been committed I should be aware of, Sheriff?”

Altringer draws in a long breath. It sounds like he’s chewing on something. Maybe a toothpick. Maybe frustration.

“No.”

“Then I guess we don’t have anything more to talk about. Have a nice day, Sheriff.”

She hangs up and squeezes her eyes shut, pressing the phone hard to her forehead. That couldn’t have gone any worse if she’d planned it. Her change of identity, just like Leah’s and Dustin’s, is safely sealed unless law enforcement procures a court order. Which is what she’s been dreading since Eeling’s death.

“He doesn’t have shit,” she whispers, eyes still closed. “If he did, he wouldn’t still be fishing.” Yes, that’s true. She hopes it’s true.

“Mom?” Tommy says from down the hall. She’s still not used to hearing it but won’t ever take it for granted again.

“Coming,” she says.

74

“Hey, you all right?”

Hattie looks up from her cup of coffee at Sloan, who sits in his customary chair in the library watching her, brows furled together. She tries recalling the last thread of conversation and comes up blank.

“Sorry. Drifting,” she says. “What were we talking about?”

“Me fresh off a heart attack, you with early-onset dementia. What the hell’s to become of us?” He readjusts himself with a wince. “What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit. You’ve been miles away all afternoon. And on my first day home from the hospital. I’d be insulted if I wasn’t so damn exhausted.”

There’s nothing more she’d like to do than tell her best friend everything: Tommy, Ed, Eeling, all of it. But it’s not an option. At least not now. Maybe someday she’ll be able to. That would mean a global shift in their lives for the better. In any case she can’t say what she’s currently contemplating. What she and Tommy have been working on the last few days. How they’ve been searching for and eventually found where Eeling had been living in New York. All of the considerable effort wasted after speaking to a talkative building supervisor because Eeling’s apartment had been cleaned out the week before by his wife. Estranged wife, I should say, the super said, chuckling a little. By the way, who’d you say you were again?

She didn’t. She hung up feeling the dull stupidity of a dead end.

“There you go again,” Sloan says.

“Sorry.”

“You know, as much as my mind wanders, you can talk to me. I do listen.”

“I know you do.” He winces again and she starts to stand. “What can I get you?”

“The numbers of those goddamn surgeons who did this to me.”

“They didn’t do it to you, your lack of exercise and diet did.”

“I guess no more Mottles clotted cream then.”

“Absolutely not, it’s a new plan from here on . . .” She freezes, watching the slow smile creep onto Sloan’s face. “Wait, you knew?”

“That you were passing off Mottles as Worthington’s Best? Of course. I might be half dead, but my taste buds aren’t.”

“And you never said anything.”

“After you went to the trouble of shopping for me, transferring the cream to new bottles, and fixing me a snack while providing the highlight of my week. Some people have called me so, but I’m actually not an asshole.”

She laughs. “Here I thought I was being so smooth, and you were fooling me the whole time.”

“Mind’s still got a bit of an edge even if the body’s failing.”

“It’s not failing. You hit a . . . speed bump.”

“Hell of a bump.”

“They’ve got you started on cardiac rehab, right?”

“Walking a little farther every day. And Adam’s helping me with the resistance bands.”

“And I’ll keep your pantry stocked with heart-friendly snacks.” He pulls a face and she chuckles again. They’re quiet for a while. The afternoon is crisp and almost too bright to look at—the cove shimmering in a billion points.

“You know, I mean it. You can tell me anything,” Sloan says.

She wishes that were true. They sit for a while longer, enjoying the comfortable silence between them.

Hattie finally stands and heads for the hall. “I better get going. Call if you need anything.” She pauses at the doorway. “The clotted cream and biscuits were really the highlight of your week?”

Sloan blinks at the brilliance of the bay and turns to look at her, the corner of his mouth quirked. “It wasn’t the food.”

75

When she gets back home, Wendy is on the front porch peering through one of the windows.

“Shit,” Hattie whispers, pulling to a stop before the shed.

“Hey there,” Wendy calls as Hattie climbs from the Toyota. “Sorry, thought I saw you in there. Must’ve been my eyes playing tricks.”

Her heart crabwalks for a couple beats but she manages a smile. “What’s up?”

“We haven’t seen you much since Thanksgiving and I wanted to check on you.”

“Oh, thanks. Yeah, I’ve been busy.” Hattie glances past Wendy’s shoulder at the windows.

“With what?”

“Sorry?”

Wendy smiles indulgently. “What’ve you been busy with?”

“You know, errands, cleaning, whatnot.”

“Jules has been asking about you.”

“Has he? I’m sorry I haven’t been by, just with the holiday and Sloan’s heart attack, it’s been a lot.” She edges toward the door, sending mental messages to Tommy not to look out the window at the wrong time.

“Right. Sure.” Wendy watches her go up the steps. “Did you want to come over for dinner tonight? I was going to make lasagna.”

“You know, I’d love to, but I’ve got a project going that’s kind of time sensitive.” She fumbles for a second. “Paint’s drying as we speak.”

A funny look crosses Wendy’s pretty features. “Yeah. Well, I won’t keep you then.” Hattie watches her go, cursing herself before turning away.

“He’s doing good,” Wendy says, stopping her at the door. “Julian’s doing really good. In case you were wondering.”

Hattie starts to apologize, to reconsider dinner or figure out a way for Julian to visit, but Wendy’s already walking away, a very brief wave over one shoulder.

“Sorry,” Tommy says from the den when she comes inside. “Didn’t hear her until she was on the porch steps. Barely made it out of sight.” Hattie drops into a chair and puts her face in her hands. Tommy comes to sit across from her. “I do have some good news.”

She straightens. “I’ll take anything right now.”

“I found Eeling’s wife.”

“You did? How?”

“I searched through property records in the boroughs.” He turns her laptop toward her. “A Ross and Natalie Eeling are listed as owners for a place in the Bronx.”

“This is excellent, Tommy. Great thinking.” He beams. “I’ll go see her tomorrow.”

“And if there aren’t any pictures from Ramsby?”

She doesn’t even want to consider that. She gives him a smile she hopes he can’t see through. “Then we’ll find another way.”

Much later, as she’s finally drifting off to sleep with Tommy’s soft snores coming from down the hall, it occurs to her that she hasn’t lapsed into a fugue or seen the owl since their reunion.

Not once.

76

It’s a five-hour drive to Eeling’s house according to her GPS, so she gets an early start.

She leaves Tommy with her old iPhone and the orders to call if anything happens. Anything at all. As the cottage fades in her mirrors, she’s overwhelmed by the feeling that she’ll never see him again and has to breathe deeply for the next five miles until it fades.

Dustin’s and Colm’s faces carousel in her mind as she winds her way south. Trying to decide which one of them could be a killer is jarring. Beyond jarring—it’s world-upending. Nothing feels solid or real. Like a seam in the sky could suddenly open and some other reality could come rushing through.

And Tommy’s assertion about Colm haunts her. How sure he is. Even with the disturbing insights he provided, she still can’t picture Colm hurting anyone except maybe himself. People seem to be good at hurting themselves.

But Tommy was right about something else—she does resent Dustin. For his jealousy of Tommy, which shaded their friendship, for ending up with Leah, but mostly for disregarding Julian’s existence since he’s really the only innocent in all this.

Crossing the state line into New York she considers what it would mean if they could determine who had set Tommy up. He’s right, they still need to prove someone else’s guilt, but if they can there is a life on the other side of this for him. One without running and hiding, without shame. One where he and Julian could know each other, where justice is finally served not only for Tommy but for Whitney Moorhead and Brie Horton and Lisa Johnson and Cheryl Barton and Paige McMahon.

Until then they are all unavenged.

A little after noon she stops for gas and a snack and leans against the Toyota, staring at a digital billboard until the pump clicks off. After paying she continues to watch the display rotate through, something keeping her from putting the car into drive.

There.

New York Knicks VS Cleveland Cavaliers

Friday, December 11th, 6pm

Madison Square Garden

She reads it twice before the ad cycles away. What? What the hell does it mean? Why should it mean anything at all? It’s a basketball game. Why should a basketball game stir something in the back of her mind?

Something about Dustin.

Let it go and it will come back.

“Yeah, okay,” she says aloud, pulling onto the interstate. “Starting to get tired of letting things go. Nothing ever seems to come—”

Her hands clench the steering wheel so hard her knuckles pop.

“Holy shit,” she whispers. A horn blares from directly beside her as she almost swerves into the nearest lane. There’s an exit ahead and she takes it, parking near a fast-food joint before calling her old number. Tommy answers on the second ring.

“Hello?”

“I know what it is,” she says, heart still thundering from the lightning strike of connection. “What I saw at Dustin and Leah’s.” She tells him and waits for his response when she’s finished.

“I mean, it would be a fairly large coincidence if you’re right. But how would we confirm it?” She’s already thought of this as well and explains. A long sigh from his end. “You think that’ll work?”

“Yes.” She has no clue if it will or not.

“All right. I’ll try.”

“Good.”

“If the dates line up, what then?”

“I don’t know,” she says, not wanting to say anything more.

Because it might mean nothing. Or everything.

77

The house sits at the end of a street not far from the East River.

It’s a beige boxy two-story with black trim and a chipped stone stairway leading to the front door. An overpass soars a hundred yards away on cyclopean struts, traffic a constant howl.

Hattie sits for a few minutes watching the home and checking the time. From the brief look she got of his picture, she guesses Eeling’s son Owen is maybe four or five—possibly school age. It’s a little after one, not quite pickup time. And there’s an aging SUV parked at the curb. There’s not going to be a better chance than now.

She steadies herself and climbs out, crossing the street at a brisk jog. The doorbell is missing its button, so she uses the bronze knocker on the door, wringing her hands before tucking them in her pockets as footsteps near inside. A face appears at the door’s window, there and gone. There’s a beat, then the door opens.

Natalie is tall, at least five ten, maybe more, with dark hair pulled back from high cheekbones and deep brown eyes. “Can I help you?” she says, glancing past Hattie, then back to her again.

“I hope so. I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m here about your husband.” Natalie’s face slackens. “He was interviewing me for a story he was working on—”

“The Bedfellow,” Natalie says. She’s retreated a step, narrowing the door’s gap.

“That’s right.”

“We’re not liable. I have nothing to do with whatever it is. We were in the middle of a divorce.”

“I’m not here for anything like that.” Natalie watches her with palpable distrust. “He told me about some information he’d come into possession of before he . . . passed. It’s very important and I wasn’t sure if you had any of his work or—”

“I threw it all away.”

There’s a crumpling in her center, like the ashes of freshly burned paper falling in on itself. “Everything?” Natalie just watches her. “Right. Well, I’m really sorry to bother you.” She takes a step down the stairs, then turns. “And I’m sorry for your loss. I know what it’s like to lose a partner.” Something passes beneath Natalie’s features. Her lips part, then close. Hattie gives her a final look and goes down the stairs.

She’s halfway to her car, each step becoming harder than the last, when Natalie calls out. “You’re her, aren’t you?” Hattie stops in the middle of the empty street and looks back. “The mother.”

“Yes.”

“He said he was going to find you. I didn’t believe him.” Natalie looks toward the overpass as an eighteen-wheeler screams by. “You really only want to look at his work?”

She can’t answer for a second. “Yes. That’s all.”

Natalie nods to herself and opens the door fully. “Come in.”

78

The house is warm and decorated for Christmas.

A tinsel-drenched tree is already standing in the small living room off the entryway with several gifts beneath its boughs. Cinnamon spices the air from a candle burning on the kitchen counter. There’s a jumble of shoes, several pairs of them child sneakers, in a pile beside the door.

“I don’t have long,” Natalie says over one shoulder, leading her through the kitchen to an opposite hallway. “I have to pick up my son in an hour.”

“Owen, right?” Hattie says.

“Ross talked about us?”

“Some. How’s your son doing?”

“He, uh . . .” Natalie’s eyes shimmer. “He misses his dad.” Hattie almost reaches for her hand but stops herself at the last second. The whole scenario is balanced on the edge of a blade. A single wrong word or move could tip it all over. “We weren’t actually getting divorced. At least not yet. We were separated, but we were working on it. Then . . .” Natalie shakes her head and ushers Hattie into a cramped but neatly organized office. Eeling’s laptop sits beside a desktop computer on a small table in the corner. A few papers and envelopes are stacked beside it.

“I cleaned out his apartment and threw almost everything away except his laptop and some mail I haven’t gone through yet. I’m having a hard time getting myself to.” Hattie does touch her shoulder gently then, and the other woman doesn’t shy away. “It feels weird to ask a stranger but—”

“No, go ahead.”

Natalie crosses her arms, then uncrosses them. “You talked to him shortly before he . . .” She chews on her lower lip, tears coming on fully now. “Did he say anything that made you think he might do something like this?”

A flash of Eeling’s face within the plastic bag. She stifles a wince. “No. No, he didn’t.”

Natalie swipes a tear from her cheek. “I know he was drinking more. I could hear it in his voice when we talked. This book—it consumed him. Consumed us. I think if he would’ve quit working on it, we could’ve fixed things. But how do you ask someone to stop doing what they’re made to do?”

Hattie reaches for comforting words but words always seemed to fall short. She tries anyway. “I didn’t know him for long, but he was dedicated to the truth. And I—”

For a second she’s nearly swept away in knowing she wouldn’t be here, wouldn’t have Tommy back if it weren’t for Ross Eeling. Maybe you’ll even thank me. She can’t thank him now, but she can do the next best thing.

“—and I know he loved you both.”

Natalie draws in a shaky breath and tries to smile through a fresh wave of tears. She sits down at the makeshift desk, swiping at her eyes, and opens Eeling’s laptop, punching in the access code. “What was it you were looking for?”

“It might’ve been an email from a Donald Ramsby.” Natalie navigates to the email and runs a search. The results come back immediately.

Zero hits.

“Doesn’t look like anything here. Could it have been under another email address?”

“I don’t know. Can you search for emails only with attachments?”

“Sure.” She taps at the keyboard for a moment, then sits back. “There’s half a dozen here—do any of them look right?”

Hattie scans the short list. “No.” She straightens, mind whirring. “Can you search his computer for recent images?”

“What is it exactly you’re trying to find?”

“I’m not sure I’ll know until I see it.”

“Here’s the last twenty or so photos he saved,” Natalie says, angling the laptop toward her.

Hattie shakes her head. “No.” The same crumbling sensation is returning, except now it’s surrounding her, pressing in from all sides. She glances at the pile of paperwork. “Did you say that was some of his mail?”

“Yeah. This all came in the last month or so.” She picks up the pile and hands it over. “It’s mostly bills. Ross tried to keep it from me, but he was behind on quite a few payments.”

She’s right. There are multiple credit card statements, letters from at least two banks, as well as the usual deluge of junk mail.

“I’m really sorry, but I have to go get my son now,” Natalie says, but she sounds very far away because at the bottom of the pile of mail is a manila envelope, the name above the return address leaping out in black Sharpie.

D. Ramsby

Hattie’s fingers flit to the back closure but she halts with considerable effort, looking to Natalie. “May I?”

“Go ahead.”

Hattie tears the envelope open and slides half a dozen glossy photos out onto the tabletop. It takes several moments to understand what she’s looking at and several more to know why. With trembling fingers she begins shifting the photos, one after another to the side, finally stopping at the second to last.

She blinks and her heart slams painfully against her breastbone.

Natalie leans forward, studying the picture. “I don’t understand. Is this what you were looking for?”

“Yes,” Hattie manages, her head attempting to float free of her body. “Yes, it is.”

79

The drive home passes in fits and starts.

The slow snarl of traffic leaving the city, the increasing speed of the interstate and blurring landscape, then the emptiness of country roads leading her closer and closer to home.

Hattie glances at the passenger seat where the manila folder lies. It feels like something dangerous—a scorpion or particularly venomous snake. She supposes it is.

What they decide to do with the contents of the envelope will determine everything going forward.

As she’s making the last turn off the main highway her phone pings with a message. It’s from her old number. She goes to read it but holds off since she’s only five minutes from home.

When she pulls into the driveway dusk has settled and the cottage looks desolate against the trees and sea. Like the last outpost at the end of the world. She pulls up to the shed and grabs the envelope, having to keep from rushing up the stairs and inside.

“I’m back,” she calls, taking off her shoes. “You won’t believe—”

Tommy’s leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed. The look on his face stops her.

“What’s wrong?”

“Wendy was here.”

“Wendy? What do you mean?” It’s then she notices the covered glass container on the counter beside him, almost certainly holding leftover lasagna. “What happened?”

“I heard her coming up the steps just like yesterday and had enough time to get hidden, but I bumped into the end table in the hall. She must’ve heard it because she came inside.”

Hattie closes her eyes. She’d almost forgotten exchanging keys with the Crawfords a few years back in case of emergencies.

“She said your name. She sounded worried. I heard her moving around for a bit, then it got quiet for a while before she left.”

“So she didn’t see you.”

“No, but . . .” He looks to the side, and she follows his gaze.

Any relief is stifled at the sight of her laptop open on the kitchen table displaying Paige McMahon’s face above an article concerning her murder. Beside the computer are notes she’s scrawled over the past weeks concerning the other victims along with some printouts from Eeling’s files.

“Oh no,” she breathes.

80

The lights are on at the Crawfords’, but no one answers when she knocks.

The pit in Hattie’s stomach deepens the longer she waits. She cups her hands around the door’s glass and peers inside but can’t see anything beyond the hall and part of the dining room.

She starts toward the sea-facing side of the house battling rising panic. There’s a good chance she didn’t even look at the stuff on the table. And if she did, it didn’t mean anything to her. Yes, the main thing is she didn’t see Tommy.

She continues telling herself this until she reaches the back porch and sees something that silences all the assurances.

Wendy is sitting at the far end of the dining room table in front of a closed laptop. She’s staring blankly ahead. Unmoving. Hattie raises a fist and hesitates before rapping lightly on the glass.

For a second Wendy remains motionless. Then her head swivels and she stares with the same blankness in Hattie’s direction before finally standing and coming to the back door. When she opens it Wendy gazes at her with an emptiness that makes Hattie’s insides coil.

They stay that way for a second, neither moving before Wendy says, “I felt bad about yesterday, so I brought leftovers to apologize. I thought I heard a sound inside—a thump—and I started thinking about Sloan and got scared that something happened to you, so I went in.” The flatness of her voice is chilling. “No one was there but I noticed the stuff on your table, and it sounded so familiar. So I came home and looked it up and . . .” Wendy falls silent, eyes unfocused, features slack and emotionless.

Hattie’s never seen her like this before. This still. This cold.

She has no idea what to say. How to begin.

“I—” she tries, and her voice breaks and dies.

They stand that way for a long time, light shining out around Wendy, frigid darkness pressing at her own back.

“We trusted you. Trusted you with him. With our son,” Wendy whispers. “And all this time . . .” Tears form in her eyes and spill down her cheeks. “How . . .” She shakes her head and starts to shut the door.

“Please. Please let me explain. I don’t deserve another second of your time, but please . . . there’s so much you don’t know.”

“I don’t want to know,” Wendy says, and closes the door.

81

Hattie watches the sun rise.

She’s pulled all the shades in the den so she can see the bay. She sits wrapped in a blanket in her chair. The stove is dark and cold.

There are some quiet noises in the kitchen, and soon after Tommy sets a steaming cup of coffee beside her before settling into another chair.

“I’m sorry, Mom.”

It takes her a moment to respond. “This isn’t your fault. None of it. I made all this and thought it would hold.”

Fog begins rolling heavily in off the sea and condenses on the windows, shrouding the world.

“Have you heard anything more from them since last night?”

She hadn’t been able to speak when she came back from her encounter with Wendy. She’d gone to her room and lain down, staring at the ceiling until the tears came. Then she’d rolled to her side and sobbed soundlessly into a pillow. She was still crying when she finally fell asleep.

To answer his question, she wakes her phone and slides it toward him. It’s open to a text chain with Kevin. His last message is stamped behind her tear-swollen eyes.

Stay away from my family.

Tommy slides the phone back and they watch the sun break free of the ocean and ignite the window glass into blazing squares. She rises from the chair and starts busying herself in the kitchen with breakfast. She’s never been less hungry but it’s something to do.

As she’s plating some eggs and toast, there’s movement out of the corner of her eye.

A small figure stands at the edge of the yard.

Hattie goes outside, halting at the top of the stairs.

The fog is still heavy and Julian is just a small shape near the trees. But she can feel him watching her.

How much did he overhear? How much does he know?

She takes a step down, reaching for something to say, but Kevin’s voice calls loudly from between the trees.

“Jules! Where are you? We gotta go!”

Julian doesn’t turn, doesn’t move at all. He stares at her as if seeing her for the first time.

And he is.

“Jules!”

He gives her a final look, then darts into the fog-laced trees and is gone.

82

The day becomes a beautiful mockery.

The fog burns away and the temp climbs into the low fifties. The sun seems to hang in the sky forever, and the minutes pass with agonizing slowness.

Hattie spends most of the daylight hours in her bedroom. Tommy’s tried drawing her out of her shell but she hasn’t been able to give him more than one- or two-word answers. Sloan’s been calling as well, leaving voicemail after voicemail. She can’t get herself to answer him, can only guess at what he’s already heard.

Her life has flipped upside down once more—everything gaining a distinctive sense of unreality. This can’t be happening. Not again.

As the sun bleeds out on the horizon she dons her running gear and leaves the house. Tommy watches her go without a word.

She jogs down the driveway and onto the road, slowing as she reaches the Crawfords’. Neither Wendy’s nor Kevin’s cars are there. The house is dark and still. They’re gone.

Hattie starts moving again, muscles gaining warmth as the colors in the west become meteoric. They hold for a painfully gorgeous moment, then decay into lesser versions of themselves until all that remains is a thin line of gold. By then she’s angling into Sloan’s drive without slowing, running all the way to the front step, breathing hard and knocking before she can lose her courage.

When he opens the door Sloan’s weight loss is highlighted in the fading light, the shadows in his features deeper. His gray eyebrows are knitted together in a question, and her heart continues its hurried rhythm even as her breathing slows.

“Kevin called,” he says, unmoving from the doorway. “They’re headed to his parents’ place in Florida and asked if Adam could water their plants while they’re away. When I asked why you weren’t doing it—” He shakes his head. “Tell me it’s nonsense. Some kind of mistake.”

She says nothing. Stands perfectly still. Lets him see her. He deserves that much at least.

Sloan seems to shrink into himself. His gaze turns inward, and the hand not braced against the doorjamb trembles.

“Who is it, Dad?” Adam calls from deeper in the house.

“No one,” Sloan says. “Nobody at all.” He turns away and shuts the door.

83

Hattie runs.

Down Sloan’s drive and onto the road. She picks up speed until she’s at a full sprint. Her eyes water and her legs burn, but she runs harder. Past the Crawfords’, past her driveway. She runs until it’s full dark and she can’t see anything, can only feel the road beneath her feet and the searing air in her lungs.

Until there’s nothing left inside her but pain.

One leg gives way and she stumbles and folds to the ground and lies there, face pressed against the rough pavement, panting like a wounded animal.

The moon rises and lights her breath as it steams in the air.

84

When she comes inside, Tommy’s waiting at the kitchen table.

He stands at the sight of her. “You’re bleeding.”

She looks numbly down at the torn knee of her leggings, the crusted blood there. She settles into the chair while he rummages in the bathroom and returns with a washcloth and peroxide.

“They’re gone?” Tommy asks, dabbing the moistened cloth at her knee.

“Yes.”

“And Sloan knows too?” She nods. He finishes cleaning her wound. The cuts are shallow and have quit bleeding. “Are you hungry? Want something to drink?”

“No.”

He sits across from her in the cone of light over the table. Distantly the ocean crashes over the rocks. The tide is in.

“What do we do now?” he finally asks.

She licks her lips, which are dry and cracked. “Get me the envelope I brought home. It’s in my room.” When he returns and sets it at her elbow she says, “Before I show you what’s inside, were you able to find anything out?”

Tommy looks very pale and she’s not sure if it’s the light or the conversation. “I did like you said. The woman I spoke to at Dustin’s work was more than happy to help a member of the press. Especially one doing a write-up on exemplary investment firms of the Northeast. If she thought my questions were odd, she didn’t say. It took her a while to look up the dates but—” Tommy releases a long breath. “You were right—in 2019 the firm’s yearly conference was held in Cleveland.”

The picture on Leah and Dustin’s bedroom wall resurfaces in her mind, Dustin grinning and receiving his employee of the year award. It had been the billboard ad for the Cleveland Cavaliers she’d seen on the drive to New York that had finally given light to its significance. “What was the date?”

Tommy hesitates. “Friday, May twelfth through Sunday, May fourteenth.”

She sits back, feeling the click of a lock’s tumblers falling into place. Paige McMahon had been killed in the early hours of May thirteenth. “How far away—”

“Twelve minutes,” Tommy says. “The hotel where Dustin was staying is twelve minutes from Paige’s house.”

“Jesus Christ.” She can’t help it. It’s one thing to think something. Another for it to be laid in front of you.

“But that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s guilty,” Tommy says. “It still could be a coincidence. Cleveland’s a big city. There’s any number of—” She opens the envelope and pulls out the photos. Pushes them across to him. He glances down, then up at her before sliding one picture after another off the stack. “Where—”

“They’re from traffic cameras on all major routes out of Kingland, Pennsylvania, where Elle Marks lived. Every vehicle you see in the picture was clocked speeding by one of the cameras. Do you see the time stamps at the top?”

“Yes.”

“They’re all within twenty minutes of when she was assaulted in her home.”

Tommy comes to the last photo and freezes. She watches the realization hit him. His mouth opens and closes several times before he finally looks up at her. “That’s . . .”

“Yes,” she says quietly, taking the picture from him to study again. “That’s Dustin’s car.”

85

The Mustang is black and white in the photo, but in life it was blue. Midnight blue.

It had been Dustin’s pride and joy.

The car was an early college graduation present from his father, and she can still recall the look on his face when he drove it to their place to show it off. How proud he was.

“I mean, it looks like his car but—”

She leans forward, tapping the right fender. “See that dent and the missing paint? Remember how upset he was when that guy backed into him in the campus parking lot? He eventually got it fixed, but at the time Elle Marks was attacked, it was still there.” Tommy stares, swallowing audibly. “Besides,” she says, “the plates match. I went back through my old pictures and found one of the two of you standing beside it.”

He holds the picture by the edges, as if at any second it might burst into flames. “I can’t believe it. I was so sure . . .”

She knows. Knows the feeling of having all your assumptions upended. “Eeling must’ve had a hunch that whoever attacked Elle Marks panicked after things went sideways. And what happens when someone panics?”

“They make mistakes.”

“Exactly. Like speeding away from a crime scene when you should be driving slowly and carefully not to attract attention. I’m guessing Eeling asked Ramsby to use his contacts at the police station in Kingston to get these. Then Ramsby had them mailed after he died.”

“Bastard was allergic to accountability.”

She smiles wanly, but it feels good. “That’s an understatement.”

Tommy sighs, rubbing at his temples. “Okay, this is damning, but only to us. No judge or jury would indict him on this alone, much less overturn my conviction. Not without hard evidence.”

“You’re right.”

“So we’re back where we started.”

“No. Now we know who did this to you.” She reaches across the table and takes his hand. “And we know who we can trust.”

86

Hattie eases into bed a few hours later, every muscle fiber a length of rusted wire—the scalding shower she took barely loosening them.

Their discussion and plans ricochet in her skull. The knowledge that the house next door is empty and that she may never see Julian again is a cold rainstorm in her heart. And the way Sloan looked at her before he closed the door only adds to the downpour.

She’s wrung out. Physically and mentally. Pushed to her known limits.

But there is still hope.

“The madness of hope,” she whispers, but barely hears herself before she slips away.

87

The following afternoon, Hattie waits on the front porch.

The warm spell has carried over from the day before, and it’s like fall has returned to the coast. There’s the scent of campfire in the air. The sea is calm.

The prior night’s sleep was filled with disjointed nightmares, a sense of someone standing inches behind her, cold fingers caressing the back of her neck and slipping away. Despite that, it’s the best sleep she’s had in days.

A sound brings her attention up, and after a moment a car appears in the driveway, gravel crackling beneath its tires. It stops in the turnaround, and for nearly a minute there’s no movement from inside.

Then the door opens and Colm steps out.

He stands observing the yard and the cottage before looking at her. “It’s beautiful, Hattie.”

“My refuge,” she says as he comes up the steps and embraces her.

“Are you okay? You sounded strange on the phone.”

“I’m fine.” He nods and continues to look around. “I know you’re wondering why I invited you up here after all this time.”

“I can’t say I’m not curious.”

“Come in,” she says, holding the door for him. “I’ll explain everything.”

They settle in the den with cups of tea. She’s arranged all the notes along with her computer on the low table. “What’s all this?”

“Call it a presentation of sorts. A presentation with you as the judge. At the end you can give me your verdict.”

He studies her with the acuity she’s sure is normally reserved for the eyepiece of a telescope. “I’m listening.”

88

When she finishes, the light has slanted and taken on an orange hue.

Colm watched her raptly throughout everything, growing more and more still as she spoke. Near the end, he picked up several of the compiled notes and read through them, gaze dancing quickly across the pages.

Now she waits, silence draping over the room.

“You believe it, then?” he says at last. “You really believe Tommy’s innocent?”

“I do.” She watches him rub one hand against his cheek, five-o’clock shadow rasping. “What are you thinking?”

He’s quiet a long time. “I wondered sometimes if someone did this to him. Mostly because I didn’t want it to be true. I didn’t want it to be Tommy.” He releases a long breath. “But there was just so much evidence.” He has a difficult time swallowing, and she reaches out to touch his knee.

“It’s okay.”

When he can speak again, he says, “I never thought Dustin . . .”

“I know.”

“We have to bring this to the authorities. They can start an investigation—search his house.”

“There’s no real evidence Dustin’s the Bedfellow. The photos and his proximity to one of the murders is circumstantial.”

“Yeah, but this Ramsby’s on record incriminating himself. He destroyed evidence.”

“That’s just it—it’s destroyed. There’s no record of it and he’s dead. Without the DNA, there’s no case.”

“Then what are we going to do?” he says incredulously. “Let Dustin get away with this?”

“No. We’re not.” She pauses, trying to read him. “We have a plan.”

Colm begins to say something else but falters. “‘We’?”

Hattie lets the question hang and watches him as faint footsteps come slowly down the hall and into the kitchen. Colm glances past her, squinting into the sunset streaming through the western windows.

A shadow falls over him.

He blinks, then his eyes widen and he slowly rises.

Tommy stands near the kitchen table. She cut his hair the night before and trimmed his beard, shaping it to fit his profile, which is now more recognizable. He’s dressed comfortably in jeans and a T-shirt, his hands clasped before him as if considering praying.

Colm takes a few tentative steps and stops. “Tommy?”

“Hey, man.”

Everything stills.

She can no longer hear the ocean or anything else except the rush of her blood. They’re all motionless, balanced on the edge of the last eight years.

Colm wavers in place, then rushes forward and sweeps Tommy into a hug.

89

She made soup earlier that morning and heats it up for dinner along with freshly baked rolls.

At first all Colm can do is study Tommy from across the table and continue to make small sounds as if trying to clear his throat. But as dinner goes on he begins to ask questions, and soon the two of them are talking animatedly about the years they’ve been apart.

Her heart fills as she clears the table and serves coffee. Listening to them talk is soothing music—a song from better days. The fear of how Colm would react has burned away like the morning fog over the cove. Now they’re just two friends closing the gap as best they can.

What a strange, strange life. The thought catches her off guard. Mostly because of how true it is.

With the leftovers put away and the dishwasher humming quietly, they return to the den, where Tommy gets the stove going. She’s pulled the shades, and the room shudders with firelight.

“I can’t believe I’m looking at you right now,” Colm says for the third or fourth time.

“It’s surreal,” Tommy replies, closing the stove and taking a seat beside her. “Everything about the last few weeks has been. Not to mention the last eight years.”

Colm’s smile fades. “I’m so sorry. For everything.”

Tommy’s head dips once.

The fire dances and they sit in the moment, letting it surround them. Eventually Colm leans forward, elbows on his knees. “I still can’t understand why Dustin would do any of this in the first place. You think it was losing his sister?”

“It could have been inside him all along, but that might’ve pushed him over the edge,” Hattie says. “You never know what will break someone.”

Colm seems to consider this. “You said you had a plan.”

Hattie draws in an unsteady breath. “I think we all agree we need evidence to make a difference now, and it’s the one thing we don’t have.”

“Wait, the speeding ticket,” Colm says. “If Dustin was caught on camera speeding, they issued him a ticket, which he paid.”

“It still doesn’t implicate him in the attack on Elle Marks.”

“And she’s dead too,” Tommy adds solemnly. “So we can’t even ask her to ID him.”

“Which leaves us with one option to prove Tommy’s innocent,” Hattie says.

“And that is?” Colm asks.

“We set a trap.”

Her words linger in the air.

Colm looks back and forth between them. “A trap?”

“We lure Dustin here under the pretense that I’ve learned something from Eeling about what he’s done—that I’ve got evidence of some kind. He shows up and I confront him while you both wait out of sight. We’ll record what he says, and, Colm, you’ll be an additional witness. That should be enough to go to the authorities with.”

Colm’s brow furrows. “I don’t like this at all. He could hurt you.”

“That’s what I told her,” Tommy says.

“You’ll both be in the next room in case anything happens.”

“He could deny everything. Pretend he doesn’t know what you’re talking about,” Colm says.

“He could, but he won’t. Look how far he’s gone already. If he thinks there’s a loose end, he’s going to tie it off.”

“You being the loose end,” Colm says.

“If either of you have a better idea, say it now.” She looks at both of them, but there’s no response. Because as many times as she’s gone over it, there doesn’t seem to be any other way.

If they’re to set a trap for Dustin, she has to be the bait.

The fire crackles, and to her it sounds like the grinding of heavy wheels set in motion that can’t be stopped.

90

Two hours later, after hashing out as many details as they can, Colm says his goodbyes and heads back home. Hattie offered him the couch, but he declined. I’ve got class bright and early, and there’s no one to fill in for me.

Tommy watches him drive away and stands at the window long after the taillights have disappeared.

“You’re sure you want to do this?” he says without turning around.

“Yes.”

“Then let’s get it over with.”

They sit facing one another at the table. Hattie holds her phone, which feels much heavier than usual. She takes several deep breaths, then puts the call through.

Dustin picks up on the third ring but doesn’t say anything at first.

It’s eerily like all the other silent calls she’s received over the years, except this time she’s the one calling. For a second her mind is filled with a terrible blankness, all their preparation siphoned away, leaving behind total paralysis.

“Hello?” Dustin finally says.

Her throat clenches shut. She can’t breathe.

Then Tommy’s eyes find hers, saying everything he can’t.

This is their only chance.

“Dustin—sorry, couldn’t hear you for a second.” She’s shocked at how natural she sounds, how calm.

“Hattie. Everything okay?” His tone is hushed, and she pictures him sitting in the living room alone, Leah soundly asleep upstairs. That would be the best scenario. We can’t spook him, for obvious reasons, Tommy said earlier during their group discussion. But I’m also afraid of what he might do to Leah if he thinks he’s cornered. I don’t want her to get hurt. My freedom isn’t worth that.

“Sorry to be calling so late. Hope I didn’t wake you,” Hattie says.

“No, no, I was up.”

“Good.” The silence draws out. She clears her throat, fighting back a spike of panic.

“I’m glad you called,” he says before she can go on. “I’ve been meaning to apologize for Thanksgiving. I was drunk, but that’s no excuse for being an asshole.”

“It’s . . . it’s okay.”

“It’s not. You’ve always been there for us, and I shouldn’t have let my own . . . shit get in the way of that. You’re very special to us. Always have been, always will be.”

The confliction of what he’s saying and what she knows draws and quarters her thoughts.

She’s awash, unable to focus.

“The writer—he’s dead.” It comes out of its own volition—the only thing she can think to say. There’s nothing from his end, and she has to make sure he hasn’t ended the call.

“What?” Dustin finally says.

“Eeling. I found out a couple days ago. He killed himself.”

“You’re joking.”

“No.”

“How?”

“I’m not sure. But that’s not the only reason I’m calling.” She gathers herself. One mistake now and it’s all over. “Before he died, he sent me some of his research. What his book is really about. And it’s . . .”

“It’s what?”

“Upsetting. I don’t know if it’s true. I don’t want it to be.”

Dustin’s voice drops another notch. “What does it say?”

“I can’t get into it over the phone. Could you come here? I need to speak to you in person,” she adds when there’s no response.

A gulf of silence she drowns in.

“When?” It’s only a single word, but there are volumes in it.

“As soon as you can.”

“Saturday.” Three days from now. It’s enough time. “I don’t know where you live.”

I think you do. I think you’ve known for a while. “I’ll text the address. And, Dustin?” She waits a beat. “Don’t tell Leah.”

She doesn’t realize he’s hung up until the disconnection tone beeps in her ear.

91

For the next two days it’s as if the world’s clarity and volume have been turned all the way up.

Everything is brighter, hotter, colder, louder, sharper.

Her nerves feel exposed, and she can’t remember ever being more tired or alert at the same time.

For Tommy, it’s worse.

He can’t sit still for longer than a minute. He barely eats, and she’s only seen him sleep for a few scattered hours. The only thing that seems to soothe him is reviewing the plan, and paradoxically, it brings on more bouts of tension.

And all the while, the unsaid thing hangs between them. What she knows. What they both know. Even if they get Dustin to make a confession, it won’t hold up in court. It might open the door to an investigation, which could uncover hard evidence, but even that’s not a given.

The only thing that would fully incriminate him is if he tries to hurt her.

Privately she believes this is how it was always going to end. Because Dustin won’t be satisfied with only getting rid of the evidence she has.

For him to continue living the life he’s built, hers must end.

92

On Friday night, just before dark, Hattie walks down to the ocean.

It’s snapped off cold again, and this time it feels serious. She can taste frost in the air. The bay is blued steel under a clouded sky, and the absence next door is like a cliff-hanger at the end of a novel with no sequel in sight. Julian is probably basking in the Florida sunset, warm and safe and as happy as he can be. It’s nice to think so, anyway.

She looks across the cove to Sloan’s, but his windows are dark. Maybe he’s watching now through his binoculars. She raises one hand in a small wave, then drops it to her side and goes back to the house.

Tommy startles in the kitchen chair where he’s nodded off when she comes inside. After calling Dustin, they’ve taken turns keeping watch since the simplest way to get the upper hand would be for him to show up a day or two early, but there’s been no sign of him.

“Hungry?” she asks, already knowing the answer.

“No.”

“You should eat.” She makes herself a sandwich, hoping the sight of food will entice him, but he only sits staring at the floor.

She’s about to try coaxing him to the couch for a nap when he says, “If this works, do you really think things could be good again?”

“Yes.” She watches her son, struck once more by the fact that he’s sitting only feet from her. She could reach out and touch him right now if she wanted to. “I can’t imagine how hopeless you’ve felt. How alone. But that’s over now. No matter what, that’s over.”

Emotion ripples beneath his features. “One of the worst things is knowing what Dad thought of me at the end. All those years out there, I knew there was always a chance to change your mind, to make you believe. But not him.”

She doesn’t recall rising, but then she’s beside him, holding him to her.

“When . . .” he starts in a choked voice. “When I think of what Dustin did to me, to all of us, I’m afraid.” He looks up at her with the constrained agony of someone who’s glimpsed hell and all its inevitability. “I’m afraid that I could become what Dad thought I was.”

She holds him while he cries silent tears, and recalls rocking him to sleep as an infant, warm and snug in her arms. For a second she lives in both moments.

“Before he passed,” she says, voice husky, “he told me he loved you and nothing in the world would ever change that because love abides only itself.”

They stay that way together until a sound brings them apart. Like hundreds of tiny fingernails tapping against the window glass.

It’s started to snow.

93

Colm arrives early in the morning just before the blizzard bears down.

There is an old logging road a mile past the cottage, and she has him park there out of sight and picks him up in the 4Runner.

When they return snow clings to their hair and boots.

“The roads are terrible, and it only looks like it’s going to get worse. Think he’ll still show?” Colm asks.

Hattie and Tommy share a look. “He’ll come,” she says, putting away their coats.

“I checked on Leah and she’s visiting friends down in Virginia this weekend,” Colm says. “She posted a few pictures online.”

“Probably why he chose to come today,” Tommy says. There’s an intensity behind his eyes Hattie doesn’t care for. It could be the combination of sleep deprivation and adrenaline, or something else entirely.

“This will slow him down a little,” Colm says, looking out at the storm. The yard is static white with falling snow. “It would be nice if we knew when he was going to get here.”

Hattie takes Ed’s revolver from her jeans pocket and lays it on the table. They’ve kept it close at hand since making the call to Dustin and she’s tired of carrying it—hates its sickening, deadly weight. “We’ll just have to be ready,” she says, turning away before they can see the truth.

She’s never felt more unprepared in her life.

94

Morning erodes into afternoon.

The snow intensifies, then tapers to nothing, leaving behind crystalline stillness. It would be beautiful if not for the tension permeating the air. Hattie continues checking her phone but there’s nothing. They pass the hours with bouts of conversation that don’t last. No one is hungry. No one can sit still.

Dusk pours into the cove like smoke, dirtying the snow and trees with shadow. Time scrapes by and the landscape becomes a blue black, as if everything is bruised.

“He’s not coming,” Tommy says. “He got spooked. We scared him somehow.”

“No,” she says with a certainty that’s as thin and weak as wet cardboard. “He needs to know. I could hear it in his voice.”

They’re sitting in the den across from one another. Colm has taken up position in the kitchen so he can see down the driveway. “Maybe he’s late on purpose,” he calls, not looking away from the gloaming outside.

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe he’s waiting for night. Then he can come in on foot without us knowing.”

The idea is deeply unnerving, and she has to restrain herself from closing every blind in the house. Soon it will be full dark and it won’t matter anyway—anyone on the outside will be able to see in but they won’t be able to see out.

As if reading her thoughts Tommy says, “But we have the upper hand. He has no idea either of us are here. And I very much doubt he knows you have a gun.”

But could I use it? She’s asked this question of herself dozens of times over the last three days. If and when the time comes, could she pull the trigger and kill another person? Kill Dustin? Even in self-defense?

Her stomach roils. She takes several deep breaths and tilts her head back. There’s no saying it will come to violence. She focuses instead on what will need to be done if Dustin shows. What she’ll need to say. The main thing will be to stay calm. If she lets emotion take the wheel there’s no telling what will happen.

What happens when someone panics?

They make mistakes.

She fully believes that. She hopes Tommy does too.

She hopes.

Hopes.

The madness of . . .

A hand is grasping her shoulder and shaking her. Hard.

She’s flung into consciousness, mortified she fell asleep. Colm is the one shaking her, his face snapping into focus.

“What? What?”

“Someone’s here.”

95

Every light is off in the cottage except for the one over the stove.

She can barely make out the rest of the kitchen and that’s good because headlights are just rounding the last curve and washing over the house. Colm and Tommy hang back in the shadows as she hurries to the front windows and gazes out.

The vehicle pulls to a stop in the turnaround.

“It’s him,” she says.

Without another word Colm rushes low past her to the hallway and disappears into the guest room where he’ll be listening and ready to help if need be. Tommy sinks into the darkness of the den.

The car’s door opens and there’s enough light from inside to see Dustin as he climbs out. He looks up at the house and she shrinks back, snatching the revolver from the tabletop and stuffing it into one of the deep pockets of her favorite sweater.

Okay. Okay, okay, okay. You can do this. Stay calm.

Her phone is sitting off to one side of the table. She opens the voice memo app and presses record, then drapes a dish towel over it.

Dustin’s boots crunch on the snowy stairs and across the porch. There’s a short pause, then three quick knocks.

Hattie takes a final steadying breath and answers the door.

Dustin is a darker shadow in the gloom. For a moment neither of them moves.

“Sorry I’m late,” Dustin says at last.

“Come in.” She steps aside and he moves past her, knocking some snow from his boots.

“The roads were horrendous. Took me almost four hours,” he says, looking around. “So, this is it. Where you’ve been hiding all these years.” He gestures at the ceiling. “Trying to cut down on the electric bill?”

She realizes they’re standing in relative darkness and flicks on some lights. “Sorry, I was . . .” Her thoughts are moths around a streetlight. “. . . napping. Just woke up. A little discombobulated.”

He glances down the hallway. “Could I use your bathroom? Too much coffee on the way up.”

“Of course. First door on the right.” Dustin moves down the hall, passing the open guest room where Colm is hiding, and disappears into the bath.

She sags.

It’s okay. I’m okay. The boys are only feet away. I’m safe. I can do this.

The toilet flushes and she steps into the kitchen and listens to Dustin return, waiting for a pause when he decides to pop his head into the guest room out of curiosity and finds Colm standing there. But there is no pause and a second later he’s framed in the doorway.

“Want some tea?” she asks.

“No. I’m all good on caffeine.”

“Something to eat?”

“Maybe we could just talk about why I’m here.”

They settle on opposite sides of the table and she furtively checks the den, assuring there’s no sign of Tommy. Dustin leans back in his chair, appraising her. Waiting.

“So I’m sure you’re wondering what this is all about,” she starts, trying to regain her mental footing.

“I think I know.” She waits, silence spooling out like rope. Enough to hang himself with. He shifts in his chair, cocking his head to one side. “I’m surprised that hack writer shared anything with you,” Dustin finally says. “Less so that he offed himself. He was obviously unstable.”

“You never know about other people, do you?”

If the comment needles him, he doesn’t react. “I was thinking that exact thing on the drive. I’m actually pretty disappointed. Some rando comes out of the woodwork, blackmails all of us, and then all of a sudden you’re putting stock in what he’s saying?”

“I haven’t told you what he was saying.”

“I can guess.”

“He said you threatened him.”

Dustin blinks. “I was defending myself—my family. That’s all.”

“But you never told Leah.”

“Of course not. It was bad enough for her having to relive the past.”

“For her or you?”

Her phone rings from under the towel.

Dustin glances down, then back up to her. She grabs the phone and draws it out, keeping the screen tilted toward herself.

It’s Sloan calling. She hits “Ignore” but notices the voice memo has paused with the call. She resumes the recording and lays the phone face down on the table.

“Don’t you want to get that?” Dustin asks.

“No. It’s not important.”

He watches her, the quiet between them expanding exponentially. Her pulse slams, juddering her vision with each beat. Her right hand steals down to her sweater pocket and grasps the revolver.

Dustin suddenly barks a laugh and looks away. “You know I appreciate what you did for me when I was a kid. You and Ed were there when my parents checked out. But that was a long time ago. And really, given everything that’s happened, I wish . . . I wish I never would’ve met any of you.” When he faces her again his lip is curled in an ugly half smile. “The truth is, I’m so fucking sick of you and your family. Your perfect little unit. Perfect Tommy. Well, he wasn’t so perfect, was he?”

Her jaw is clenched so hard her skull aches. “Tommy—”

“Tommy always thought he was better than me. Better than everyone else. He never deserved Leah, never deserved half the shit he got. He was lazy and self-centered and more fucked up than anybody knew, and now you’re trying to . . . what? Rehab his memory or something? Trying to get him acquitted on some kind of technicality? Is that why you were snooping around in our room at Thanksgiving? Is that why you’re recording us right now?”

Her stomach does a slow swoop, leaving her breathless. She fights not to look down at the phone but loses. A second later it’s gone, and Dustin is staring at the screen. He turns it toward her, revealing the active voice memo. He stops the recording.

“Give me my phone.”

He slings it across the table and it falls to the floor. “What do you want from me? A confession? Finish what that fucking writer started?” Dustin leaps to his feet. “Yeah, okay, I lied! Is that what you want? Fine. There it is.”

Every muscle in her body tenses. She draws out the revolver but keeps it under the table.

“I didn’t see Tommy go into Cheryl’s place, okay? I dropped him off, but I never saw him go in. I lied.” He reaches across the table and points a finger inches from her face. “And I’d fucking do it again. To make sure that psycho got what he deserved, I’d do it a thousand times!”

A form detaches from the den’s darkness and hurtles across the kitchen.

Tommy’s face is etched with fury. In that second, she doesn’t recognize him. He is something alien and wholly terrifying.

Dustin registers the movement at the last second and turns, but he’s too slow.

Tommy crashes into him at full speed.

The two men tumble onto and over the table. Hattie shrinks away, her chair toppling as she retreats to the corner, the gun shaking in one hand.

Dustin ends up on top, cursing and disentangling himself, then stiffens. “What the fuck?” he grunts before Tommy drags him down again in a flurry of limbs.

Colm materializes in the doorway and freezes at the sight of the brawl taking place before them.

Dustin tries scrambling free and Tommy uses this to his advantage, rolling him to his back and raining down a series of vicious blows. Dustin covers his face and tries crawling away again, but Tommy yanks him back and slams a knee into his stomach. Dustin’s eyes bulge as his air rushes out.

Stop.

She hears the word first in her mind and then realizes she’s trying to say it too. “Stop.” A whisper this time, lost in the animalistic display. Tommy throws a punch that connects and blood spurts as Dustin’s lips split wide open.

He hits him again. And again. And again.

“Stop. Tommy, stop!”

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t seem to hear her. Or maybe he can’t. Tommy grabs the sides of Dustin’s head and begins slamming it against the floor. Over and over.

“Colm! Stop him!”

Colm finally snaps free of his daze and rushes forward, catching hold of Tommy’s arm to yank him back. Tommy pivots powerfully while still straddling Dustin and flings Colm away as if he’s a child.

Colm loses his balance and skids across the floor, the back of his head connecting with the fridge. His eyes roll to white.

Dustin stares up through a mask of blood as Tommy latches on to his throat with both hands and squeezes.

“Tommy!” Hattie yells, but he’s gone. Lost in the bloodlust that’s been dammed up and pooling behind his eyes for the last eight years. Dustin squirms, managing to pry one of Tommy’s hands away long enough to drag in a screaming breath. Tommy regains his grip and Dustin’s eyes flutter. His legs begin to drum out a deathbeat on the floor.

A cold burst of air washes over her and she doesn’t understand where it came from until someone appears beside her.

Sloan’s face is as white as the hair poking from beneath his stocking cap. He’s wearing an old flannel coat over his stooped shoulders and his boots drag snow across the hardwood. In one hand he holds his large service pistol while the other is pressed to the left side of his chest. His eyes roll toward her in their sockets, and she can hear the harshness of his breath catching in his lungs.

He raises the weapon and aims at Tommy’s back.

“No!” The cry comes from her like something alive. She grabs Sloan’s arm and pulls him to the side.

The gun roars.

A splintered hole appears in the floor beside Tommy and he flinches.

At the same time, Dustin brings up one leg, plants a foot in Tommy’s chest, and sends him sliding across the kitchen to the pantry door.

Sloan’s face constricts and he gasps, the pistol slipping from his hand. The gun hits the floor, spins in a quick cartwheel, and stops beside Dustin.

Tommy picks himself up as Dustin grasps the gun and turns it on him.

Hattie tries aiming the revolver but Sloan’s holding her arm, trying to keep himself from collapsing.

Dustin raises the gun, bloodied lips split and peeled back in a fevergrin. But still there’s visible fear in his eyes. Even as he pulls the trigger.

The gun booms and Tommy crumples.

She hasn’t been hit, but something in her shears in half.

Tommy slides himself backward, blood pouring through his fingers where he cups his stomach. Dustin levels the gun on him again.

Time slows cruelly enough for her to see his finger whiten where it presses against the trigger.

She’s going to lose Tommy again. This time forever.

Colm is suddenly beside her.

In one smooth motion, he strips the revolver from her hand and shoots Dustin in the forehead.

Bloody matter coats the floor behind Dustin, and his eyes flick to hers for a horrible instant before he flops bonelessly onto his back.

She’s frozen. All she can hear is a high whining from the gunfire. Gunpowder hangs in the air. She can taste it. Can taste blood.

Colm is saying something, inches from her face, but she can’t hear him. Sloan is too heavy, and they both slump to the floor. Slowly she disentangles herself from him and crawls through a smear of blood to Tommy, who’s propped against the nearest wall.

He’s sipping air with his eyes closed, chest rising in small jerks. There’s a garish coating of blood on his lips. Her hands flutter over him, not knowing what to do. If there is anything she can do. Colm is speaking on his phone, shouting something that might be directions.

Hattie slips an arm around her son and holds him as best she can. Listens to every breath he takes. She whispers the mother’s creed that everything will be okay over and over again. And if this is the end, she does the only other thing she can do. She bears witness.

Her gaze drifts to the window and holds there, transfixed by the swirling movement outside.

It’s snowing again.

Part 6

The Heart Always Comes Home

Ten Months Later

96

The whole cottage smells of baking bread.

Cool October sunshine streams through the windows and dying leaves twist in the breeze.

The sea is calm today, and so is she.

Hattie sits in the den, eyes closed, breathing deeply. Inhaling the quiet until it fills her.

The timer dings and she rises to take the bread from the oven. It’s browned perfectly. As it cools she stands in the middle of the kitchen, turning in a slow circle. There is something else she’s supposed to do but she can’t remember what it is. Something important. Crucial. The nagging sense of it slipping away is maddening. Like an itch that won’t subside no matter how hard or deep it’s scratched.

Forget it. Everything’s okay. But forgetting is the problem. And everything isn’t okay.

A second before it happens, she feels it coming. Like a hammer cocking before a gunshot.

Her old phone starts to ring.

Impossible. I threw it away after . . .

But it’s ringing anyway, and she can’t do anything but follow the sound down the hallway to her bedroom. The drawer she kept it in is slightly open. She doesn’t recall leaving it that way. The light from the screen shines from inside. The ringing goes on much longer than it should.

She finds herself pulling the drawer the rest of the way open and drawing the phone out. It vibrates in her hand like something thriving with terrible life.

The number on the screen that’s calling is also impossible. The phone associated with it is locked somewhere in a precinct of the Boston Police. Probably inside a box on a dusty shelf in an evidence room.

The ringing goes on and on.

It won’t stop. It won’t ever stop.

She answers.

Hungry silence waits on the other end, eating its way into her head. It continues until she can’t stand another second of it. Hattie tries to pull the phone from her ear but it’s attached itself there like a parasite and it’s feeding on the last of her sanity.

There’s an intake of breath from the other end and she tries to scream to drown out the voice that comes through, but she can’t make a sound.

“I’m sorry, Momma,” Tommy says in a hollow croak. “Help me stooooooooooooooooooooooooop.”

Hattie jerks awake.

She’s in bed and strong October light shines in through the eastern window. The sea murmurs to her.

It’s okay. Just a dream. It’s okay. Just a dream.

Her arm is tangled in the blankets, and she has to fight to free it before she can sit up. Her pulse gradually calms, and she rubs the sleep from her eyes before glancing at the bedside table. She hesitates, then opens the drawer.

Nothing. Empty. But memories still churn from last December.

It’s real. It happened. Don’t pretend. Not even for a second. Don’t try to keep it out. Let it in.

She does. It hurts, but she relives the night as she has for the past ten months. Today it’s a little less painful than it was the day before. The hurt will never go away, but she will learn to bear it. There’s no other choice.

Movement draws her attention, and she catches what could’ve been the fleeting sweep of broad wings outside the window.

Or it could’ve been her imagination. She’s willing to give herself the benefit of the doubt. After everything she owes herself that much anyway.

Hattie climbs from bed and starts to get ready. There’s lots to do today.

97

When she walks over to the Crawfords’ a few hours later, Wendy’s already outside setting the table on the back patio.

The weather’s mild for late fall and there’s not much of a breeze. Half the leaves have fallen while the other half linger above. The air smells of cold sea and apple skin.

She sets the dish of scalloped potatoes down and surveys the place settings. “Are you sure you don’t need anything else?”

“Nope. I made the ham yesterday and the potato salad this morning. Sloan said he’d bring dessert.”

“So a store-bought pie with soggy crust.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything else.”

They share a laugh that would’ve felt impossible even three months ago. But time is the greatest tide of all, washing away some things and bringing in others.

She stares out at the water and is lost for a while. Then Wendy’s beside her, touching her arm. “Are you okay?”

Hattie gives her the best smile she can. “Absolutely.”

“Grandma!” Julian rushes out the back door and into her arms. Him calling her that isn’t something she’s gotten used to yet. Isn’t sure she ever wants to get used to it because then she might take it for granted, and too many things lose their meaning that way.

“Are you excited about today?” she asks, letting him go.

“Uh-huh. Dad said we could set the leftover fireworks off tonight!”

“That’ll be fun.”

“Honey, can you go get the pitcher of water and glasses for me?” Wendy asks. He rushes back inside with the enthusiasm particular to eight-year-old boys. “We could barely get him to bed last night. He was bouncing off the walls.”

“He’s doing so well with everything.”

“He really is. His therapist says he’s continuing to adjust appropriately, which is good.” A familiar shadow crosses Wendy’s features. It was there the first time they saw one another after the fallout of last December, and surfaced repeatedly as the chasm between them gradually narrowed over the weeks and months.

When they’d finally met in person earlier that summer, after a series of tentative phone calls, Wendy had listened intently to Hattie’s story, absorbing it like a woman exploring wings of her home she never knew existed. And to her credit, she did it without judgment. Maybe it had to do with being a mother herself. They had taken it slow, agreeing that Julian had a right to know who his birth parents were and the circumstances surrounding his adoption. With the gradual understanding came acceptance, if not full trust. That’s something that will take much longer to rebuild. But they have time.

“You sure you’re okay with all this?” Hattie asks.

Wendy’s a moment answering but then brightens. “Yeah. I really am. I guess I’m adjusting appropriately too.”

“They’re here!” Julian proclaims as he reappears, dropping the water pitcher and several glasses off at the table before hurrying around the side of the house. He quickly returns with Colm and a pretty young woman with long dark hair in tow.

Colm hugs her tightly before stepping back. “Hattie, this is Gemma.”

Hattie shakes her hand. “Very nice to meet you.”

“I’ve heard so much about all of you,” Gemma says.

“And you still came?” Wendy quips.

“Had to be up front with her,” Colm says, rubbing the back of his neck. “She didn’t run away screaming, so that’s a good sign.” He’s smiling but Hattie can see a greater distance in his gaze. She recognizes it from her own.

Sloan arrives next, walking slowly but steadily with a cane of carved ash. He hands Wendy a sunken apple pie, and Hattie has to cover a smile. While they talk, she notices his age has finally caught up to him, and it dims the internal gleam she’s felt all morning.

The second heart attack Sloan suffered the night in her kitchen was much milder than the first but set his recovery back several months. While he was still in the hospital he relayed how he had continued to keep tabs on her through his binoculars after learning her true identity and noticed a second shadow against the blinds one evening. Wounded but curious, he kept watch, seeing Colm come and go and then Dustin’s arrival. I got a bad feeling, he told her while lying in the starched white sheets of his hospital bed. When you didn’t answer my call that night, I got my pistol and hustled over as fast as I could, which wasn’t very fast. She doesn’t know how things would’ve played out if he’d been a few seconds slower or never came at all. She doesn’t like to consider it.

For a while they mingle and chat. Catch up on the last few weeks. It almost feels normal—a group of people who could be celebrating any typical milestone or memory. But she sees the intricate web of loss and resilience binding them together, and she can’t help but think the same thing she’s returned to again and again over the past months.

What a strange, strange life.

Just as they’re getting ready to eat, several heads turn, and she sees the final two guests have arrived.

Tommy and Leah.

The sight of him still makes her breath catch. How much weight he’s lost and the way his eyes never hold on one thing for too long. Some of it is the result of spending nearly six weeks in intensive care after surgeons removed a large part of his lower intestine. But it mostly has to do with returning to prison for the last seven months while the wheels of justice so very slowly turned.

And when she recalls the night in December, it still blurs around the edges like a photograph losing its definition.

How the first person on the scene was none other than Sheriff Altringer with an ambulance not far behind.

Trying to explain to the authorities the string of events that led to Dustin’s death while simultaneously drowning in the fear that Tommy wouldn’t survive.

Tommy being placed under arrest while he was still in recovery and how, for a time, the path things seemed to be following felt all too familiar.

Then the eventual turning point with what was discovered in Dustin and Leah’s garage.

Tucked beneath a drawer in Dustin’s toolbox was an engine seal pick—a wickedly pointed mechanic’s tool holding an uncanny resemblance to Ed’s wood awl—and the burner phone he’d used to call Hattie over the years, as well as a small elastic hair tie. After testing, the pick was determined to have been used in the murder of Paige McMahon, while the hair tie belonged to Whitney Moorhead, the Bedfellow’s first victim. It seemed Dustin was also a creature of habit, keeping his second murder weapon along with the hair tie as a memento. So far that was all that had been recovered.

But it was enough evidence to release Tommy on bail, which Hattie gladly paid.

She goes to him now as she did in the courthouse atrium at his release, gathering him to her and reassuring herself that he is alive. That this is real.

“Hey, Mom,” he says in her ear. They part and she drinks him in for a moment before hugging Leah, who seems to have aged a decade since Dustin’s death. She gives Hattie a weathered smile, only really lighting up when Julian comes to her for a shy embrace. Seeing the two of them together against the backdrop of all the others, family and friends, reminds Hattie of how much ground has been covered since December.

And how much farther there is to go.

98

“So what’s happening with the settlement?” Kevin says.

They’re sitting in the Crawfords’ living room, everyone nursing a beverage as the last of the color leaches from the bay.

The afternoon passed easily with a leisurely lunch outside, a few games of bocce on the back lawn, a long walk along the shoreline, followed by light hors d’oeuvres and drinks. The comfortable conversation between everyone is better than Hattie could’ve hoped for, since for some of them it is only the second or third meeting in person. Yet they’ve gelled in a natural way that tightens something in her chest each time she sees it. Especially Leah and Julian. For the last hour the two of them have been playing together in the loft, a glimmer of Leah’s vitality returning whenever Julian laughs.

“Leave it to the lawyer to bring up a lawsuit at a party,” Wendy says, rolling her eyes at her husband.

Kevin holds up his hands defensively. “I’m curious, that’s all.”

Everyone looks to Tommy, who’s seated at the end of the couch beside Alice. “Well.” He clears his throat. “The state’s going to settle.”

“That’s wonderful,” Wendy says. “What made them change their mind?”

“Mostly it was the recording of Ramsby admitting to destroying evidence. They didn’t want a story like that going public.”

“For good reason,” Kevin says.

“The official statement of exoneration is way more important than the money,” Tommy says, looking at the floor.

“Still, I hope it’s enough for you to buy a yacht,” Colm says.

Everyone laughs. Even Tommy.

“No yachts,” Tommy says. “Maybe a decent down payment on a house when I decide where I want to be.”

“Any ideas?” Gemma asks.

His gaze travels up to where Leah and Julian are playing. “I’ve got a few.”

They’re all quiet for a moment before Hattie stands and raises her drink. “I’d like to make a toast.” Glasses hoist. “To my son.” Tommy’s eyes gleam as they meet hers.

“To justice,” Kevin adds.

They all drink, but Hattie pauses before sipping hers. Justice. Maybe someday that word will mean something to her again.

The evening winds down with a few more drinks and some music. Julian and Tommy spend nearly a half hour talking quietly in one corner of the living room, and Hattie can’t look at them too long without having to blink away a gathering mist in her eyes.

When everyone’s finished grazing, Hattie and Wendy clean up and Gemma joins them, starting to hand-wash the dishes against Wendy’s objections.

“I don’t mind at all,” Gemma says, scouring a pan. “I’m from a big family, and we all took turns doing the dishes. Colm, on the other hand, is a work in progress. He’s been living off paper plates and Solo cups since college.”

Hattie grins. “Colm said you’re a teacher.”

“Yes. Seventh- and eighth-grade science.”

“I used to teach too.”

“He told me.”

“How long have you been officially together?” Wendy says.

“About four months.”

“I never asked—how did the two of you meet?” Hattie says, beginning to dry the dishes.

“Through a program Colm started at the college. It’s geared to get middle schoolers engaged in astronomy. I was looking for a cool field trip for my class and heard about his program. When I saw him it was . . .” Gemma’s face colors.

“Love at first sight,” Hattie offers.

“Something like that. Actually . . .” She dries her hands and pulls her phone out. “I’ve got a video of the first time we met.” She hits play and holds the phone out to Hattie and Wendy.

A group of chattering middle schoolers are gathered in a large domed space. One section of the roof is open to the night sky, and a large telescope points toward the gap. The video zooms in and focuses on Colm, who stands before a control panel near one wall.

“Can you all hear me?” he says.

“Quiet down, everyone,” Gemma’s voice calls, and the children fall silent.

Colm gives Gemma a brief smile before refocusing on the class. “Who can tell me what this place is called?” Silence. “No one? It’s called an equatorial room. Basically, it houses this telescope you see here and keeps it protected from the weather.”

The hand of a boy in a fluorescent-green shirt shoots up. Colm points to him.

“Um . . .” the boy says. “So you can only look at this part of the sky, then?”

“Good question, and that’s the unique part about this room.” Colm turns to the control panel. “By typing in a few commands here, we can actually get a view of three hundred sixty degrees of the sky. Now, everyone hold on.” Colm hits a button.

The entire room begins to turn in a slow circle. The children erupt in delighted yells and laughter.

“What are we watching?”

Gemma stops the video. Colm stands in the kitchen doorway.

“I was just showing them your demonstration of the equatorial room.”

“Don’t bore them with that.”

“It’s not boring,” Wendy says. “The program for the kids is amazing.”

“It’s fun.” Colm points to the living room. “Kevin said he was going to shoot off some fireworks in a bit. You want to stay or get going?”

“Let’s stay,” Gemma says. “I’m just going to finish these up quick.”

“You don’t have to,” Wendy says.

“No, it’s fine.”

Colm glances at Hattie. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Think I’ll get some fresh air. Feeling a little warm.”

She makes her way to the back entryway and slips outside. The night is blessedly cool, and she takes several cleansing breaths as she moves down to the shoreline. The bay is calm but foreboding—the water, briefly warmed in the summer, is already frigid.

For a few terrifying seconds she thinks she’s going to pass out, and she takes a half step back from the steep bank and the rocks below. She draws out her phone and tries forming a cohesive thought within the howling static of her mind.

As she hears the sound she’s fearing and waiting for, she types the only thing she can think of on her phone with shaking hands before tucking it away. The footsteps come closer and stop beside her.

Colm doesn’t say anything, and they stand that way for a time, the first stars blooming as the sky deepens from purple to black. Waves lap on the rocks below and the mournful wail of a boat’s horn floats across the water.

“The heart always comes home,” Hattie finally says.

Colm’s perfectly still for a moment, then his head tips forward until his chin nearly touches his chest. “It was the video, wasn’t it?”

She tries to speak but can’t. Because she can still hear it—the grinding of the electric motors moving the observatory dome, echoing into the memory from the midnight call when she’d heard the same sound.

Colm releases a long sigh. “Give me your phone.” She hesitates, glancing up at the house and the warmth of its light, which feels very far away now, then hands it to him. He flicks through the call log and her messages and she’s infinitely glad she deleted the last message to Tommy after sending it. I was wrong. You were right. Wonders if he’ll understand. Colm lowers her phone but doesn’t give it back. “It was about your mother, wasn’t it? The poem?” she says.

He’s a long time answering. “Yes.”

“Why did you leave it in Tommy’s room?”

“I didn’t. It must’ve slipped out of my bag. I never knew what happened to it until now.”

A fragile silence falls over them. She breaks it with the only word she can.

“Why?”

When he speaks, his voice is low and raw. “She was holding me when she died. She told me to climb in bed with her. I was afraid because she’d been so angry before, but then it was different. She was different. She held me and I remember being so warm and safe. I laid there not wanting to go to sleep so I could keep feeling that way. I watched the stars come out, and it was like I was floating away.” He takes a deep breath and releases it. “I didn’t know she was dead until morning and I couldn’t get away from her. She was holding me too tight. The people who eventually came had to pry her arms off me.” He looks around them, making sure they’re still alone. They are. “After that, I started seeing her in different places—in a smile or in the way a woman touched her hair. It was like she’d broken into pieces and a little bit of her was everywhere. But I never saw her in you.”

Hattie studies his outline against the blackening sky. He’s becoming harder and harder to discern from the darkness.

“The wood awl in Ed’s shop called to me—it was like I had to take it. But I never meant . . . It was never supposed to be Tommy,” he says quietly. “I always made sure Dustin was the one without an alibi. I used his car when I could. He never loved me like Tommy did. But after Elle Marks, I was afraid, and when I saw Tommy fighting with Cheryl . . .”

He doesn’t have to finish. She knows the rest.

He turns to her and it takes all her being not to flinch away. “I want you to know you helped me. You helped me stop after Paige. I was lost and alone, and when I called, you talked to me like I was Tommy. Like I was your son. After that, I started seeing her less. Eventually I didn’t see her at all. You helped make her go away. She made me do what I did, and you helped it stop.”

She’s unraveling inside. “Colm,” she finally manages, “you have to get help.”

His shadow stills. “I have gotten help. I don’t need to do it. I don’t need to be with them anymore. Everything is okay now.”

“Dustin—”

“Dustin never loved any of us as much as he loved himself.”

She tries to speak but can’t. There’s nothing else to say.

“Everything is okay now,” he repeats distantly.

“You kept a hair tie from Whitney. I’m sure you kept more things from the others. If the police were to search your house—”

“By the time they got a warrant, everything would be gone.”

Even in the low light she can see pity in his eyes. And something much more frightening.

Regret.

“You fell in the dark and I found you,” he says as if in a trance. “But it was too late.”

She tries to say something else, but then he shoves her and she’s falling off the bank toward the rocks below.

There’s a flash of terror before her vision showers with sparks and pain explodes through her body.

She tries to draw in air to scream but can only gasp in the boiling agony. She blinks, unable to believe this much pain can be real, and catches a glimpse of Colm easing down the ledge to where she lies. He leans over her, part of the darkness now.

“I’m sorry,” he says, picking up a rock with both hands and raising it over his head.

Hattie tries rolling away, but there’s something wrong with her left leg and arm and she can’t move. Can only hope that it will be over quickly. Hope that Ed will be there on the other side of this, his arms open to welcome her as she arrives.

Light flares, and at first she thinks this is death, just a piercing white light. But the pain continues assaulting her in waves and she realizes she can see Colm clearly now, standing over her with the rock in his hands.

“Put it down!” Tommy yells.

Colm stares into the flashlight’s beam, his face stricken and bloodless. Now she can see several outlines of people standing on the bank above them.

Colm falters but doesn’t lower the rock. He lifts it higher.

There’s a sharp crack like a tree snapping in winter and a spurt of flame. Colm staggers and the rock falls from his grip. He places a hand against his side, and it comes away redly wet.

“The police are on their way,” Kevin shouts. “Don’t even try running.”

Colm takes an unsteady step back, and Hattie tries dragging herself clear of him but only manages to send another shock wave of pain through her arm and leg.

“It’s over!” Tommy shouts.

Colm stares into the light before his gaze drifts down to hers. “Yes,” he says finally. “It is.”

Without a look back, Colm turns and walks toward the water. For a second she thinks he’s trying to run, but his movements are unhurried, almost leisurely. He makes his way over the last few rocks until his feet meet the waterline.

He keeps going.

Colm strides into the waves, the water climbing to his knees, then his hips. She tries to say something, maybe to call out his name, but then Tommy’s there beside her, cradling her head as they watch Colm wade deeper and deeper into the cold water.

Soon he’s only shoulders and a head. She thinks she can see him first look back at the shore, then upward.

He drifts there beneath the stunning sprawl of stars for several heartbeats, then slips under the waves and is gone.

After

You can see them sometimes from shore.

A family who got a small sailboat somewhere, probably at a bargain because it’s seen better days. But it floats and it moves through the waves well enough. At least for them.

It’s hard to make them out, but usually it’s an older woman with graying hair and a pronounced limp, a slim younger man—probably her son—along with a teenage boy who bears a striking resemblance to them both. They sail the bay back and forth and sometimes venture farther out to open water until the boat is only a vague triangle against the horizon. Sometimes it disappears from sight completely.

I worry about them when they travel so far out, all that water stretching for thousands of miles that’s swallowed numerous ships much larger than theirs.

But they always find their way back. And their boat returning to safe waters is grace that can’t be told in words alone.

It has to be lived.

Acknowledgments

Thanks as always to my family for your love and patience—none of the work would be possible without you. My agent, Laura Rennert—your support and guidance are treasured and beyond integral to every book. Thanks to my editor, Liz Pearsons, for the belief in the work—I’m always so thrilled to hear “this might be your best yet.” And eternal thanks to the readers who keep making what I do possible—I am forever grateful.

About the Author

Photo © 2023 Jade Hart

Joe Hart is the Edgar Award–winning and Wall Street Journal bestselling author of eighteen novels, including Wyndclyffe, I Become Her, Or Else, Where They Lie, Never Come Back, Obscura, Now We Run, The Last Girl, The River Is Dark, and The Final Trade as well as many novellas and short stories. His work has been translated into eight languages and has been optioned for film. He lives with his family in Minnesota. For more information, visit www.joehartbooks.com.