I put my hand on the doorknob, scared I’d find it locked. But the door opened. I walked into the kitchen. There were two bowls in the sink. There was a horseshoe crab shell on the counter, and I stared at it, transfixed. Had they taken a walk together? Found this treasure in the sand, half buried. I touched the crab, its brittle caramel-colored shell. Then I realized there was something strange about the crab. Its tail, that little dagger, instead of having one point, was forked like a snake’s tongue. I touched it, felt the twin points pressing into my fingertips.

The house was still. As if no air from the outside world could get in. As if no one had been moving, talking, breathing the whole time I’d been away. In the living room, two mugs sat on the coffee table. The downstairs bathroom was tidy; it even smelled good.

I looked into the laundry room. On top of the washing machine was a little pile of clothes, damp with blood. I saw the blood immediately, the rich brown mud of it. Lucas’s T-shirt, sweater. His corduroy pants. I felt a contraction of fear so sharp and deep I thought I wouldn’t be able to stand. And from some place far away, my mother’s voice urging me to take care of Lucas. I ran, afraid to find out how I’d failed.

I stumbled upstairs. Hallway. Bedroom. Afraid I wouldn’t find him, that he would have disappeared the way so many things seemed to be disappearing, lost to time or memory. But he was there.

We faced each other across the doorway. Lucas looked at me, frightened. He was so handsome it took my breath away, his bright golden eyes. He was perfect, his left hand the only imperfect thing, tied up in bandages, a huge white mummy of a hand.

“I knew something happened to you,” I said. I was crying, still holding the bloody clothes. “What did he do to you?”

“It was an accident,” Lucas said.

“An accident!” My voice was shrill. “It was no accident.”

I felt the air move behind me and whirled around. Cole was in the hallway now, calm, still, concerned.

“I was at work. It was the hedge clippers,” Lucas said. “It was definitely an accident. You think I’d cut my fingertip off on purpose?”

Nausea rolled through me. The image of Lucas, and the blood, and the soft pads of his fingers.

“Why were you at work? It’s the off-season.”

“It was a winter work day,” he said, and that made sense. At the Day Estate, Lucas shoveled walkways, raked leaves, and trimmed paths on an as-needed basis.

“How did you get help?”

“Walked home,” he said. “There’s a trail of blood all down the beach.”