Back at the main house, Ana Gathreaux called her brother on Long Island. Her cell phone didn’t work—none on Trachis did. So she sat in the antique wooden booth beneath the lobby steps and pulled the louvered door shut, and a bare lightbulb switched on. She dialed and waited for the rings. Her sister-in-law picked up and managed to say all the wrong things before mercifully passing her on to her brother. Ana had nothing in particular to report to Peter, only that she was still there, on the island, and Russell hadn’t yet been found. She felt so distant from everyone, especially from those back in New York and her lab—and now from Peter, with whom, in normal times, she had so little in common. She said she’d call in a few days and quickly hung up the receiver before he could ask too many questions.

Afterward, she wandered out to the terrace. The phone call had only made her feel worse. Diana Olmstead, the woman with the cane, was standing at the edge of the lawn, prayer beads wrapped around her wrist. There was a vigil planned for that night, she informed Ana. Mrs. McIntyre had brought candles with paper collars, and they were meeting on the bluff around eight. If she wanted to, if she was up for it, Diana Olmstead said, she should join them.

Ana glanced at the sky.

If, Diana added, it doesn’t rain.

Yes, Ana murmured and wrapped her arms tighter against her sweater. But it would rain. She was sure of it. There was every indication in the sky.

Nine

The weather worsened by dark. The candlelight vigil was postponed. The Brooklyn family left on the last ferry, the Hasidic boy and his mother, and the Bulgarian’s escort too. Yet the inn remained fairly full, with all but one cottage occupied. Kevin went through the main house, checking doors, sliding storm windows. Trees roared outside; the wind whistled in the eaves. The house felt unsettled. Kevin knew: he’d hardly sleep that night.

By morning, ragged whitecaps tore at the strand. Kevin stood by the window listening in the half-light to the weather band. The computerized voice had been taken off the air, and a real person was reading the forecast: a sure sign that an autumn storm was on its way.

We’ll probably lose power, Douglas muttered from the darkened bed.

Yes, Kevin thought, we probably will. He dressed quickly, pulled on socks, and went downstairs. Rain pelted the windows. Someone was sleeping under a blanket on the couch in the drawing room. The Dutch girl, no doubt; he’d found her there the previous morning.

In the kitchen, Sheila Quinn was frying bacon.

Weather looks bad, Mr. Gearns, she said.

Kevin took a mug from the shelf. For two years he’d tried to get Sheila Quinn to call him by his first name; eventually, he just gave up.