She waved the notebook in his face as if swatting a fly. “I’m serious, John. Right now, the Globe, the Cape Cod Times, and a bunch of online rags are queued up at the ferry trying to get over to the scene. I also heard that CNN is on its way and plans to do a feature that’s somehow tied to Jaws. It sounds farfetched, but who knows? In any event, we islanders want the best for the Inn. It’s a fine piece of property, and we know Earl will do it justice.” She peeked around John’s shoulder and waved to Earl, who nodded in half-hearted response. “But this kind of publicity could put a quick kibosh on it. Give me an exclusive, and we’ll get the real story out. It’s the only way to ward off gossipmongers.”

John stood in the doorway staring at Marilyn Sunderland. Annie didn’t feel it was her place to say anything, and Lucy had returned to cowering.

Earl stood and hoisted the waistband of his workpants. “Let her in, son,” he said.

* * *

Lucy offered everyone a cold drink; John told her this was not a social event.

Marilyn sat on the love seat next to Lucy. “How are you, honey?” she asked as she tapped Lucy’s knee. “That must have been a dreadful experience, finding that skull. I remember when I was about your age, Ronnie Slovich was walking to school one morning and he found a dead body on West Tisbury Road. Remember that, Earl?”

Earl shrugged. For as long as Annie had known him, she didn’t think she’d seen him that mute for that long.

“So,” Marilyn went on, “do you want to tell me about it, honey?” She clicked her pen and looked at Lucy.

“I didn’t find it,” Lucy said. “Annie did.”

All gazes skulked over to Annie.

“I did,” Annie said. “And I need to tell you up front, Marilyn, that it might be a hoax.” She said it with a straight face and a clear voice, and, for once, she didn’t stumble over a lie. Perhaps because so much was at stake.

“A hoax?”

Toying with the hem of her T-shirt—good grief, Annie realized, she was wearing an old T-shirt and yoga pants, her work-at-home wardrobe, not her go-to-Edgartown attire. She wondered if she’d put on any makeup in the morning, then recalled that, no, she hadn’t. On top of that, she’d looped her hair into a quasi ponytail—quasi because her hair was too short for a real one, but so long that it hung in her face when she was bent over her keyboard, studying the letters, waiting for words to find a way out to her four typing fingertips. She sat up straight and squared her shoulders, hoping that good posture would help neutralize her god-awful appearance.