Tourism is winding down at the square. Beyond it, I pass the stretch of beach with its salty houses, lush hydrangeas, and Mahoneys, Santangelos, and Wrights. I pass the banks of mailboxes at dirt driveways that burrow off into the trees. Once I’m through the three-way intersection, I see Gendy’s, then fiddle with the tripometer to avoid seeing Jack’s clinic. When it, too, falls behind, I tell myself it’s for the best. Only, the best feels like shit and, coming up on the left, The Hideaway is as emotionally potent as the other. Pushing on past Urgent Care, I turn onto Route 1 heading south and I tell myself that I’m safer, even more so after I’ve driven around downtown Westerly, through Pawcatuck, and onto Pequot Trail.

When I finally hit the highway, I give myself a mental high five. I-95 is neutral ground. Exits stream past my window—90, then 89 and 88. There are no choices here. It’s straight highway driving, only modestly busy at this hour. Cueing Pandora to a soothing Mozart, I take a few long, slow, deep breaths. At the Exit 87 mark, twenty-eight minutes have passed since I left the bluff, but the hollow in the pit of my stomach remains.

Ignoring it, I drive on. By the time I pass Exit 86, I’m thirty-two minutes away from Jack and still hurting. Desperate for a distraction, I call Chrissie.

Chapter 30

The speakerphone comes to life after a single ring. “Mallory,” she says with a loud sigh, sounding infinitely relieved, like she’s had the phone in her hand all this time, waiting for my call, and is only now allowing herself to breathe.

Not sure what I feel myself, I stick with a simple, “Hey.”

Several awkward beats pass. Signs for Exit 84 are headlight-lit in the encroaching dusk. Groton is behind and New London ahead, while Bay Bluff is farther away with each turn of the wheels.

Cautiously, Chrissie asks, “Where are you?”

“Driving back to New York. You?”

“Here already. Hey, Joy,” she calls out, assuming my daughter is in the passenger’s seat.

“She’s back in Bay Bluff,” I say, but I don’t want to think about Joy either. “When did you leave?”

“Wednesday night.” Her voice wavers. “There was no point staying.”

My first thought is that she’s talking about our tattered friendship. Then I recall the other piece, which I’ve been too mired in self-pity to see. Of course, it would be absurd to think she’s been in Bay Bluff with her mother all this time. “Lina?”

“Lina.”

I remember the woman’s hard stare last Saturday, when she was looking for her husband in my face. That was bad enough. Recalling the scene at the cemetery, I can’t begin to imagine what Chrissie must have felt when Lina hissed at her—her own daughter, whom she hadn’t seen in years. “She’s tough.”