Trudy smiled. We did. And I think a little Violet in her life is just what Maya needs.

Trudy slid her hands in her pockets and sighed contentedly, but Violet’s mind was again awash in old memories and the two words she’d seen in the newspaper today. I can’t tell her, she thought. There’s no need for her to know. No need to burden her with the past.

Violet exhaled a puff of air from her nose. “I think it’s you, Tru. She could use some Trudy in her life.” She patted Trudy’s arm as she walked back into the house. “Do you mind putting the plates in the dishwasher? I’m going to head on to bed.”

* * *

The next morning, Violet was late for her survey. She’d once read that birds were creatures of habit, and though they might not have noticed—or cared—whether she arrived on the beach at seven or eight, it mattered to her. She didn’t want to disappoint them. But she’d slept poorly the night before, her mind teeming with images of sharp metal, crumbled bricks, dried blood on a soft cheek, and air bubbles releasing on the surface of the river. Her legs had moved all night, trying in vain to find a cool, soft place.

When she finally succumbed to exhaustion, she slept hard, unable to rouse herself, even when a dreamy, high-pitched boat motor mixed with the sound of Trudy’s sweet voice, calm and clear. Just as the motor threatened to overtake Trudy’s voice, Violet wrenched herself up, yanking open her eyelids and commanding them to remain open.

Despite her unsettled sleep and chaotic dreams, she still could have made it on time if it hadn’t been for the bones. Backpack in hand and visor in place, she’d left the house only to find yet another set of fish bones on the bottom step, like a casual forgotten shoe or an innocent gardening glove. But it was not casual to her. Not innocent at all. Her legs gave out when she saw them, and it was a few long moments before she could stand again.

By the time she made it to the beach—legs still trembly, breathless from hurrying, and damp at her hairline—Frank had started without her. He was a little ways up the sand with his back to her, his binoculars focused on three terns darting back and forth where the waves crept up the sand. She called his name, but her voice tangled in the strong breeze and flew back against her, so she just watched him a moment, unseen. A quiet stillness rolled off his shoulders and wrapped around his legs, the sight of it calming something frantic inside her, just as it had when she was a much younger woman.

Frank let his binoculars hang from the strap around his neck and jotted something on the clipboard. He glanced up again and made another note. A moment later, he checked his watch and glanced behind him, startling when he saw her. He held his hand up in a wave, grabbed the head of his cane that was propped against his hip, and began to walk back. She started toward him, the sand squeaking underfoot, and met him in the middle.