All she knew for sure was that it seemed like a lot of manpower and falderal for a single piece of bone.

Ten or fifteen or who-knew-how-many minutes later, a state policeman walked over to her. He introduced himself as Detective Sergeant Lou Sloan. The brim of his hat shaded his face, except for his gray sideburns. He had questions for Annie: How much seaweed had been wrapped around the remains? Did she touch any of the actual “material”? Was it in the same spot where she’d found it or had she moved it? Then he told her that his team would be taking photos, collecting evidence, and trying to predetermine if it was human or animal.

Animal? Though Annie hated to think that anyone or anything had died, there was some relief in thinking that the bone might have belonged to a critter with four legs instead of two.

“Lots of bones are remarkably similar,” the detective explained. “For instance, vertebrae that looks human can be from a whale. And did you ever see the paw of a seal once the flesh has been . . . well, once it’s gone? It’s a dead ringer—pardon the lousy pun—for the skeleton of a human hand.”

With all the mysteries Annie had written and all the research she had done, she would have thought she’d have already known those things. Instead she stood, stupefied, her eyes fixed on the scene as Sloan’s assistants gathered, tagged, and bagged. She felt like a gawking bystander, but could not pull her gaze away.

“That is so cool,” Lucy said, giving Annie a nudge. “Especially about the seal.”

“It’s nature,” the detective sergeant said with a shrug. Then he added, “Please don’t leave Chappaquiddick. We might have more questions.” And he went back to examining the area.

Over the years, Annie had been to plenty of crime scenes, studying law enforcement officers at work and taking copious notes (too copious, as the stacks of notebooks in her desk drawers attested). She’d spent countless hours firing questions at police, forensic specialists, psychological profilers, prosecutors, and district attorneys—whoever could offer real-life facts to help create her made-up mysteries. This time, it was different. It was in her backyard. Literally.

“I took a picture,” Lucy whispered to Annie. A few minutes earlier, John had tried to get Lucy to go back to Annie’s cottage, but the girl had planted her hands squarely on her slim hips and said, “Really, Dad? I’m not a baby anymore.” He’d opened his mouth as if to argue; then he’d merely shaken his head and gotten to work.

“A picture of what?” Annie asked.

“The guy’s head. I took it with my phone before my dad or anybody got here.”

“Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Someone had to do it. I shot it when you went up to the driveway to ask the cops to turn off their sirens.”