After Poppy and John showered, they got an early jump on breakfast before Lisa was up, so that Lisa could relax and enjoy a meal without assuming all the work of preparing it. Poppy mixed up a sausage, egg, and cheese casserole with ingredients they already had around the house, and John went out to pick up a dozen donuts from Sweetie-Pies, the famed bakery across the island.

Ryan was the first to wake. The casserole still had twenty minutes of baking time, and John had not yet returned with the donuts.

Poppy said, “You got a better night’s sleep than our first night, I take it?”

Ryan nodded. “Like a log.” He removed the rubber band from the newspaper that sat on the counter and started reading the front page. Poppy leaned over the counter to sniff him. “Are you wearing cologne?” she said.

Ryan wriggled away. “It’s called deodorant.” He went to the refrigerator and poured himself a glass of orange juice. “I’m gonna be on the patio. Let me know when the casserole’s ready?”

“Yeah, hon,” Poppy said.

Several minutes later, Poppy was unloading the dishwasher when the phone rang behind her, and she was so startled that she dropped a steak knife on the floor.

She put the phone to her ear. “Hello?”

Silence. No voice, no dial tone.

Poppy held her palm over the mouthpiece and rammed the speaker end to her ear. Who the . . . Several more seconds passed. Was that breathing at the other end of the line? A man. Was it heavy breathing? Could be.

Poppy took her hand off the mouthpiece and said, “Hello?”

A man’s voice, deep and soft, said, “Hello.”

Poppy said briskly, “Are you calling for Scott? To play golf?”

A few seconds of silence, then the man said, “No.”

She sputtered, “Well then, who are you? . . . Huh? . . . Well?”

The man didn’t speak, but he didn’t hang up either.

“Nothin’?” Poppy barked.

When the man didn’t answer, Poppy hung up the phone so hard it jangled against the wall mount. “Hell with that guy,” she muttered to herself. Some sicko getting his jollies calling random numbers on the island and breathing heavily into the phone if a woman answered.

As she returned to the dishwasher, the name Keats Firestone flashed through Poppy’s head. She tried to ignore it. She put a few dishes away and fanned her face with a pamphlet on the counter. Well, shit on a stick. She wished she hadn’t had that thought. Keats Firestone. Poppy didn’t really believe the call had anything to do with Keats, but, well, she’d rather rule it out so she could forget about it altogether. If it weren’t for the kids here, if they hadn’t had that second encounter with the guy . . . It would be better for her just to trace the call so she could know and put it out of her mind.

Poppy grabbed a pen and a takeout menu from the counter and returned to the phone. Alright, creep. Where ya calling from? Poppy dialed *69, and a woman’s automated voice came on and introduced the Caller ID service. When the woman recited the originating number of the call, Poppy was so surprised by the area code that she almost dropped the phone. The area code was not local, but belonged to Wheeling, West Virginia. The caller was somebody from home.