The salt pond behind Gendy’s is connected to the sea only at times of heavy runoff from streams or tidal storm surge. Half a mile long and far shorter across, it is bordered on the land side by trees and modest homes, on the ocean side by a salt marsh. Power boating is regulated to protect the habitat, but a pair of kayaks glide by as we emerge from the path.

The beach is shallow and starting to darken under a purpling sky. Bill is sprawled in a weathered Adirondack chair a bit down the beach, but Joy and Dad are farther still, walking hand in hand—which, coming after mention of broken families, is a pleasure to see.

“Whoa,” says Anne. “Who initiated that?”

I squeeze her arm. Sisters do think alike. “I was wondering the same thing.”

“Dad.”

“Joy.”

“He really likes her.”

“She really likes him.”

Anne snorts and says a dry, “She didn’t grow up with him.”

“Nope. But she’s desperate for family.”

“So am I,” Anne says and sets off to join them.

So am I, I think but don’t follow her. Rather, sinking down near the water line, I ruffle my hand over strands of eelgrass to expose the tiny stones and shells beneath. My thumb and forefinger single out an oyster drill. Cupping it in my palm, I brush off bits of dark sand, and trace it from its pointed spire, over its small ribbed shell, to its flared outer lip. When the snail is alive, its tongue reaches out past that lip to drill into oysters and suck out the meat. I cringe thinking about it—would never tell Joy that these sweet little snails are vicious predators, though, even here in the eelgrass, I see shells with tell-tale round holes. That said, this one’s swirls of amber and white are definitely something to photograph.

I’m wishing I had my camera with me now, when my phone vibrates. Pulling it from my pocket, I look at the screen. The good news is, no one else sees it this time. The bad news is, well, bad news.

Chapter 15

Cops know. Where are you?

I stare at the words for a frightened minute, then type, Know what?

Lily, you, Tom’s mind. Can we talk?

We’re at Gendy’s. Twenty minutes?

On the beach.

Though Anne doesn’t see my screen, she knows the texts are from Jack. Trusting from his earlier one that my meeting him is necessity rather than choice, she challenges Joy to a game of Scrabble. I remain in the living room long enough to see my delighted daughter open the ancient board with reverence, and to warn Anne that Joy is good at the game, before heading to the beach.