He heard the way his father drew in a sharp breath. Would he stop Matthew, abort this conversation they’d never dared to have?

There was a moment, a pause that lasted less time than an indrawn breath; then Dad laid a heavy hand on Matthew’s shoulder. “No one could contain your mother,” he said quietly. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Matthew didn’t know how to respond. There was so much to say, but they’d never talked about any of it. How could you even start a conversation like that?

Dad pulled Matthew into a fierce embrace. “I’m glad as hell you’re back.”

“Yeah,” Matthew said hoarsely. “Me, too.”

*   *   *

MID-APRIL. Dawn washed across the land well before seven A.M. When Leni first opened her eyes, even though it was to darkness, she felt the buoyancy that came with the changing of the seasons. As an Alaskan, she could feel the nascent light, see it in the lessening of the inky black to a charcoal hue. It carried with it a sense of hope, of daylight coming, of everything would be better now. Of he would be better.

But none of that was true this spring. Even as sunlight was returning, her dad was getting worse. Angry and intense. More jealous of Tom Walker.

Leni had a terrible, building feeling that something bad was going to happen.

All day at school she battled a headache. On her bike ride home, she started getting a stomachache. She tried to tell herself it was her period, but she knew better. It was stress. Worry. She and Mama had gone into alert mode again. They made eye contact constantly, walked carefully, tried to be invisible.

She rode expertly over the bumpy driveway, taking care to stay on the high ground between the two muddy tire ruts.

In her yard—a morass of mud and running water—she saw that the red truck was gone, which meant that Dad was either hunting or had gone to see the Harlans.

She slanted her bike against the cabin and did her chores, feeding the animals, checking their water, bringing in the dry sheets from the line, dropping them into a willow basket. Holding the laundry basket on her hip, she heard the high, rubber-band sound of a boat engine, and stared out at the water, tenting a hand across her eyes. High tide.

An aluminum skiff turned into their cove. The put-put-put of the engine was the only sound for miles. Leni tossed the laundry basket onto the porch and headed for the beach stairs, which they’d strengthened over the years. Almost all of the boards were new; only here and there could you see the tarnished gray of the original stairs. She descended the zigzag steps in her muddy boots.

The boat puttered forward, its sharp prow angled up proudly on the waves. A man stood at the console, guided the boat forward, beached it.

Matthew.