She did not allow herself another second to think about it. In less than ten minutes, she pulled together what she needed, tossed on the tattered clothes, told Kevin she’d be back later, then hurried out the door and across the side lawn where the landscapers had yet to plant thickets of beach roses and wild berries that would create a bounty of natural, old Vineyard flora. Last week, Earl had put the landscapers on hold. Even if they had the funds to pay them, they might not be needed. If The Vineyard Inn was on sacred Native American ground, the Wampanoags might prefer to leave it as it should be, as it was.

The path was overgrown, yet recognizable, a jumble of scrub oaks dividing one property from the other. Annie ducked and made her way through, trying not to think about the many times she’d done that when there had been more than one scary situation that she’d felt she should resolve.

Reaching her cozy refuge, she drew in a long breath. In addition to having been a wonderful creative space, the tiny, gray-shingled place with its creaks and cracks and quirks had been where her dream of moving to the island had come true, where she’d learned that life could start again. It held fond memories of finding baby Bella, of meeting Earl, and, of course, of spending many nights with John, learning to love again. Maybe one day her new cottage would hold fond memories, too. Unless Donna chose to stay there forever.

Tiptoeing onto the porch, Annie didn’t see a stack of wood—reassurance that no one was there. Though the calendar was quickly turning to May, anyone who lived there would still need the woodstove.

She slipped her laptop and thermos under one arm and turned the door handle. It was locked.

“Damn,” she whispered. She jiggled it, then tried again. Still locked. Closing her eyes, she tried to let her wiles override frustration. One night, Francine had figured out how to bypass the lock; surely Annie could. Maybe there was a YouTube video to show her how. She reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. Stuck to the back was Georgia’s laminated business card. Annie smiled.

You’re welcome, Murphy said.

Annie zipped the card between the door and doorjamb as if she were scanning her debit card at Cronig’s Market before they’d installed the chip readers. A soft “pop” heralded success, and she wondered if the charge of trespassing had now escalated to breaking and entering. Somehow, it didn’t matter.