At Trachis Inn, the guests returned to their cottages to shower, change, pack. The Italians left just after breakfast. Claartija’s brother too. He’d been planning on leaving for days. There was nothing left for him on the island, and he’d never really wanted to come in the first place. It was Claartija’s idea; she’d insisted they go not just to Nova Scotia but to Trachis Island itself. Her brother, however, couldn’t care less. Once their parents’ bodies had been identified the first day, he’d wanted to head home. He was interested only in the lawsuit, and the whole time on the island he’d jotted notes, made lists, written down what the airline representatives said (and what they didn’t say), for who knew, it might be important for the lawsuit—especially if they said something stupid. His early morning phone calls to Amsterdam, to New York City, his interviews with lawyers maddened Claartija, for it seemed so heartless—his way of grieving. How different the two of them were. Seven years separated them, but it may as well have been decades. Claartija always suspected one of them—probably she—was an adopted child.

She watched her brother shoulder his aluminum briefcase and climb into the back of a waiting limousine. She felt a momentary pang of anxiety; he was, after all, her only brother. But she’d made her decision the day before to stay on the island. She wasn’t ready to leave yet, and the airline would fly her back whenever she wanted. There was nothing he could say about it now.

Diana Olmstead caned out to the driveway to wave good-bye to those leaving. Kevin came out too. Afterward, Diana Olmstead put an arm around Claartija’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. Mrs. McIntyre padded over on sneakers and held out an offering to Claartija: an open tin of Altoids. Wintergreen.

At noon, the minibus returned. The remaining guests were heading to the naval yard at last. Ana sat on one side of the bus, Pars on the other. Mrs. McIntyre counted heads. Half the seats lay empty. On the Peninsular Road, the wind scattered leaves; the sky was Wedgwood blue, the trees changing orange and red. It was autumn already, Ana thought wistfully, peering out the window. For days she’d been dreading this trip to the hangar. Others had been there already, picking through the possessions of the dead. She wasn’t sure which she feared most: finding something of Russell’s, or finding nothing at all.

They drove past fields of grazing Jerseys. Meadows gone to seed. Late herons like lawn statues in estuaries. At the end of the island, they arrived at a gate. Quonset huts shimmered under the afternoon sun. Dozens of vehicles sat parked on a weedy tarmac. An airplane hangar glittered beside the sea.