“You were in the study,” he said.

Vacations, which they always took to locales where Leonard was setting a book. A Wolf’s Cry (Manitoba). We Are Berlin (Germany). Rats in the Cellar (Nassau). The Bearded Lady (Romania).

When Anthony was old enough he went off on his own to roam the hotel, to swim in the pool, to peruse the shops. His mother stayed with his father more often than not. Doing . . . what?

“You’re getting warmer,” she said. “I can tell.”

“You—” he breathed.

“Yes,” she said.

The sound was almost audible, the pieces of the puzzle falling into place. “You wrote the books,” he said. “You’re Leonard Puckett. That’s it, isn’t it?”

She tipped her head forward just a fraction of an inch. A concession. “Not all of them,” she said. “But it’s been a partnership for a long time. That’s why we fought, Anthony. Your father was so upset about what you did. Beyond upset. And I told him he was making too much of it. I told him that in the end it wasn’t so different from what he was doing, putting his name on our work. My work.”

“I can’t believe this,” said Anthony. “I just can’t believe it.”

“There’s one more thing, Anthony—”

“Just a second,” Anthony said. “I need some air.” He went through the kitchen and opened the back door and stood on the cottage’s small deck, then he followed the path to the beach.

There was a figure walking along the sand, a figure in blue scrubs.

Jeremy. He looked out of place, walking on the beach in his scrubs; he looked like a jungle animal wandering a glacier.

“Jeremy,” Anthony called. He walked down the steps of the deck and toward the beach. He couldn’t believe his voice could sound normal. Nothing was normal.

Had Nancy already gotten to Jeremy? He had the idea that he could save Lu if he could get to Jeremy first.

“Hey!” said Jeremy, waving. The wave was innocent, neighborly—Nancy couldn’t have gotten to him already.

“Where you headed?” He tried to make his voice sound normal, even though his mind was spinning.

“On my way home,” said Jeremy. “Didn’t you hear? Ferries stopped running. There’s a storm coming.” His mother’s storm, thought Anthony. From her iPad. And the storm Cassie had mentioned, the one that was supposed to hit Massachusetts. “The purple flag is up!” said Jeremy.

The purple flag was up? Anthony had thought the purple flag was mythical, like a unicorn. He’d never heard of it actually going up. He’d never seen the purple flag. The water was so flat. Then again, storms could be like that. They could sneak up on you. That’s why there were so many metaphors surrounding them. The eye of the storm. The calm before the storm. Maybe only two metaphors: he couldn’t think of any more. Maybe Dorothy Puckett could think of more. Dorothy Puckett the writer.

“How can there be a storm big enough to stop the ferries?”