One interesting part about living on Chappaquiddick was that getting Wi-Fi could be a challenge. Cell phone service, too—two bars, one bar, none. The glitches typically occurred in winter when the island breezes were stirred up like mistrals, those unrelenting winds that whirled and swirled in the South of France where Annie had gone several times with her ex-husband, con man Mark. On Chappy, as in France, one became accustomed to blustery interference. On Chappy, the interruption of services was sometimes a relief. Back to the good old days of peace and quiet and nothing else.

Which was why, later that sunny day, with her cleaning binge completed, Annie checked all plugs and portals, found them up and running, then turned off the alerts on her laptop and her phone and descended into the blissful silence of no distractions in order to write.

The trouble with silence, however, was the shock when it was broken. After nearly five hours had elapsed and seven new pages had magically now appeared on the screen of her laptop, a loud banging on her door jarred her back to the real world.

She hauled her body from the chair in her peaceful writing room and went into the living room. Through the screen door she saw two men and a woman, in their twenties or thirties, standing on the small porch. They were dressed in jeans and lightweight hooded jackets that did not look new. The men looked vaguely familiar.

“May I help you?” Annie asked through the screen. She wondered if they might be reporters of online media who hadn’t yet heard that there was no viable story there.

“Greg Collins,” the taller man said. He had black hair and brown eyes and round, cheerful cheeks. “We’re here about the Inn.”

If one’s heart were really capable of sinking, Annie’s did. She smiled at the group, trying to mask her dismay.

“Marty Amanti,” the woman then said, and pointed at the other man. “And my husband, Luke.”

Then the names rang a few bells. Three, to be exact. Greg Collins and Marty and Luke Amanti were soon-to-be tenants who had signed two of the three year-round leases for rooms at The Vineyard Inn.

“Of course,” Annie said, shifting on one foot. “How are you all today?”

“We heard about the bones,” Greg said. “We need to know what’s going on.”

“It was on the internet,” Marty added. “We watched the video on YouTube.”

The video? As far as Annie knew, Lucy had only taken a photograph. Two, counting the one with Jonas. Had someone turned them into a video?

Marty’s husband stepped forward. “Has construction shut down? Is there going to be an Inn or do we have to spend the winter camping again?”