She pressed the button to darken her screen and rested her head against the back of the lounge chair, relishing the lift of the hair around her face as a breeze passed. She closed her eyes and drifted.

Later, the whine of a boat motor coming up the river made its way into her brain. Suspended in that loose space between wakefulness and slumber, she wasn’t sure if she really heard it or if it was part of a dream.

As the noise grew louder, images began shuffling through her mind, behind her closed eyes: closed fists and raised voices, tear-streaked cheeks and broken glass. She tried to open her eyes but they were weighted, impossible to budge.

Just as the boat reached the dock where she sat, she reached her hands up to her face and her eyes opened. She sat up so quickly the back of the chair slapped against her, but when she scanned the river, it was empty. No people, no boat, not even a ripple on the surface. Then, like a trickle of ice water down her back, she realized where she’d seen the boat.

Eight

When Violet awoke the next morning, rain was plinking off the windowpanes and the metal roof of the back porch. Her stomach was pinched with both nerves and anticipation at the thought of seeing Frank again.

She dressed quietly for the morning survey—after all, a little rain didn’t stop the birds from going about their business—and walked barefoot into the den. She’d expected the rain to keep Trudy asleep for a while, but there she was, already hard at work at the long dining table, her woodworking tools spread out on newspaper, and her tackle box open to reveal the myriad compartments of pastel-colored treasures.

“Getting an early start today?” Violet peered over Trudy’s shoulder to see what she was working on. It was the driftwood lamp she’d started on earlier in the summer. Violet noticed Trudy had added a thin line of iridescent jingle shells down one side of the wood, like a row of tiny buttons on the back of a dress.

Violet touched a shell with the tip of her finger. “This is lovely, Tru. Really.”

A smile ghosted across Trudy’s face, then her brow furrowed and she reached out and touched the white scar on Violet’s outstretched wrist.

Violet pulled her hand back. “Just an old scar,” she murmured, rubbing it with her thumb as if wiping away a smear of dirt or stray ink. “It’s nothing.” The lie gave her mouth a metallic tang, and despite the rubbing, the white line persisted, a slash of memory embedded in her skin. She’d never told Trudy where the wound had come from, opting instead to keep a Band-Aid on the cut until it healed. She’d chosen to keep the worst details of that night from Trudy—she’d seen no need to burden her sister any more than she already was. Violet didn’t remember Trudy ever asking about the scar.