“I listened to some guy on the ferry explain it,” said Jeremy. “It has to do with the offshore winds, and what the pattern is in the Caribbean, and then the angle of the winds as they head toward the island. I don’t remember all of it exactly. But basically it can be really calm here, and a mess out there, and then—bam, everything can change direction. And it hits. A hurricane.”

“A hurricane?”

“That’s what they’re saying.”

“Geez,” said Anthony. He’d have to track down Cassie, make sure she and Max were safe. Were they back at their hotel? Had anyone told them a storm was coming here?

Then Jeremy’s phone must have vibrated, because he held up a finger to Anthony, indicating he should wait, and put his phone to his ear. He walked toward the ocean and when he turned back the set of his jaw had changed, and his posture had changed. Nancy.

Lu had been a good friend to Anthony this summer—a calming, next-door presence, just like Amanda Loring had been in fourth grade. He remembered how much trouble he’d had with place values and rounding that year, and how much Amanda had helped him. He remembered the crook of her neck as she bent over the paper, chewing the eraser on her pencil. Everything had been so uncomplicated in fourth grade, so clear and right.

Anthony steeled himself and called, “Your mother has it all wrong, you know.”

“Sorry?”

“Your mother. Your mother has it all wrong. Whatever she told you about Lu, it’s not right. It’s not what’s going on.”

“I’m not really sure what’s going on,” said Jeremy. “But I’m about to go figure it out.”

Plot twist, thought Anthony grimly. He turned to go inside.

His mother was still on the couch, with her hands folded and her gaze pointed straight ahead, steady, staring at nothing.

“I don’t understand,” said Anthony. “What do you mean, specifically, about the writing? What was your involvement in the work? Are you talking about a few suggestions here or there . . . the untangling of a knotty plot point? That’s not really writing, with all due respect, Mom. That’s simply editing. Helping. Pick whichever words you like best. But lots of writers need to bounce ideas off somebody else sometimes . . . you know, just to see if things make sense.”

“I did pick the word I like best,” said Dorothy. “The word is writing.”

“You wrote the books for him? Mom, are you telling me you wrote Dad’s books for him?”

Dorothy nodded crisply. “It differed somewhat, here and there. Sometimes we would work together—he with his legal pad, I with mine. We’d each take a chapter or a scene. Maybe they were different viewpoints. For example . . .” She tapped her forehead. “Ah, yes! For example, the Drug Me Tender books. I’m sure you remember that those were written in alternating points of view, the detective and the killer.”

“Yes.” It had been a trilogy to start with, but the Drug Me Tender books sold like crazy. The publisher wanted more, and it became a series of seven, released every six months for three and a half years. A gold mine. That series had sent Anthony to college with plenty left over.