“You never know,” says Maggie. Before she started working for Lu, Sebastian had walked himself right down to the beach; if Anthony hadn’t rescued him, who knows what might have happened? “Here,” she says suddenly. “Why don’t you take my bike and do a loop? I can stay here and look around for him. You should call the police too.” Two summers ago a seven-year-old girl had drowned in the ocean. Bad things happen, even here. You could lose someone in the blink of an eye.

“Okay,” says the woman slowly. “Yes, okay.” She looks at Maggie’s bike like it might bite her. She is wearing a spaghetti-strap sundress and her hair is beautifully curled just at the ends—the kind of hair Maggie and Riley used to call princess hair—and for a second Maggie thinks she is going to turn down the offer. But then she says, “Thank you,” and reaches out for the bike. She mounts it steadily enough and off she goes, cycling up Water Street, calling out, “Max! Max! Max!”

The wind picks up. The gray clouds that were on the horizon are now scudding across the sky. The scene reminds Maggie of The Wizard of Oz, with Miss Gulch riding her bike in the cyclone. And what happens in that movie? Miss Gulch, of course, turns into a witch.

Chapter 61

ANTHONY

“YOU’RE NOT PROUD of what, Dad?”

“Earlier this year,” Leonard whispered. “When was it—February?”

February was when—was when—was when. Anthony knew that because the days were so short, and it got dark so early. There was no reason to get out of bed when his waking time amounted to only three hours of daylight. The publication was set for September, so the galleys would have been bound and circulating.

Suddenly it made sense. It all made sense. The final puzzle piece fell into place; the key slid into the lock.

“You did it,” he said slowly. “Anonymous source,” the in-house attorney had said. “We didn’t think anything would come of it, of course, but we’re obligated to check out everything that comes our way.” “It wasn’t anonymous at all, was it?” He kept his eyes on his father’s face the whole time he spoke. “It wasn’t anonymous! It was you.”

Leonard looked so like Dorothy had, just the tipping forward of the chin. The acquiescence, the concession.

“I made myself believe it was a well-read editorial assistant,” Anthony said. “Or maybe even some long-lost O’Dwyer relative, out to get some money for the estate.” He waited for Leonard to tell him it had been one of those. He didn’t. “But you didn’t know O’Dwyer, Dad. He was Mom’s guy, mine and Mom’s.”

Leonard shrugged. “You did something dishonorable.” His expression was implacable. “It deserved to be discovered, son. Righted.”

“Mom put you up to it?” His mother had been trying to tell him in the cottage earlier. Something else, she’d said, something really important: one more thing. His own mother?

“No. Of course not. She pointed it out to me, when she was reading through the galley. That’s all. She was . . . concerned. She was going to talk to you about it, son.”