Kevin unfolded his arms and swung them at his sides as if he were preparing to do the broad jump at a junior high track meet. “Technically, I guess it was. But things might change if this is new evidence.”

So Kevin’s concern about their mother’s visit had less to do with Donna, and more to do with the added stress he now was under, wondering how supportive he could—or should—be for Taylor. It also had to do with his need to know if Taylor had, in truth, murdered her boyfriend. None of which would have mattered if Taylor weren’t still Kevin’s girlfriend. So that answered Annie’s curiosity about that.

“I’ll call Donna,” Annie said. “I’ll ask her to postpone her visit for a week or two. I’ll make up a good story. That’s what I do for a living, isn’t it?”

Just then the state police walked past them; one carried a thick black plastic bag that was not much bigger than a gallon Ziploc. By the distinct shape of the bulge, Annie knew what was inside.

* * *

Annie waited until evening to call Donna; there was no response, so she left a message asking her to call her back. There was no need to offer details.

Then Annie went to bed.

And tried to sleep.

And tried not see what she had seen.

Or worry about what it might mean.

But it was not until the sky started to wake up that she finally found sleep.

* * *

She didn’t rouse until after eight, didn’t shower and pull herself together until nine. If she tried to think about the Inn’s décor, she’d only dwell on the events of yesterday and the “red tape” that Earl had cautioned her might lie ahead. So instead, Annie sat at her small corner desk, staring out the open window, trying to focus on her manuscript. But the sunshine and the warm breeze—promises of summer—were not helping. She kept her phone at her elbow in case Donna returned her call.

“Focus, focus, focus,” Annie admonished herself. But it was hard to separate the yellow police DO NOT CROSS tape on her beach from the murder in her manuscript.

Annie’s mystery series revolved around two main characters who once had been college pals but now were very different: studious Emma was a hardworking career girl struggling to climb the ladder at a Boston art museum; fun-loving Maggie was a trophy wife who volunteered at the museum in order to do something “civic-minded” that would look good to members of the other boards on which she (or her husband) served, and that someday would read well in her obituary. Annie had not crafted the characters after Murphy and herself; if she had, the book would have been easier to write.