With some deep breaths, the feeling passes, and I’m able to turn back and keep going. There’s something wrapped around the right wrist. I give it a good tug and it comes free. It looks like a bracelet made of leather, about an inch wide. I think it used to be brown, but it’s black in places as well, so it’s hard to tell.

This detail confuses me. I don’t remember ever seeing my father wear a bracelet, but something about it is so familiar to me. I can picture it wrapped around a man’s tanned wrist, which means my father must have worn it at some point. Why else would I remember it? I tuck it into the pocket of my shorts. It’s the only clue I have; there’s nothing else left on this body.

Abandoning the open grave, I head back to the cottage. If I can find a photo of my father with this bracelet on, I’ll have my proof. Then I’ll go to the police. They’ll have to reopen the investigation. They can do DNA testing, go back to the evidence they collected years ago, and finally figure out what really happened. It’s time for the truth to come out, even if it’s a truth that in the end proves that West really did kill my father.

MAY

It’s dusk. The sky is streaked with bright orange and pink. There’s a stillness to everything, as though the entire island is holding its breath. Heat bugs chirp in the trees, even though the sun is setting and everything green is wilted slightly as though weighed down by the humidity. It must be a heat wave.

June hurries across the backyard, a frantic look in her eyes. Her skin is streaked brown with dirt, her hands are bloody, and her tank top is soaked through with sweat. She looks as though she’s fought her way out of a fox’s den.

The screen door swings open wide as she rushes through it and then snaps back fast, sounding like a gunshot. She goes right to the liquor cabinet in the dining room, pulls out a bottle of Scotch, and struggles to get the lid off. Taking one of my father’s tumblers down from the shelf, she pours at least two shots of the amber liquid into it. Watching her lift the glass to her lips, I see that her hands are shaking. She throws the Scotch right down her throat, coughs, and then pours herself another.

Finishing her drink, she moves into the kitchen, where she runs her hands and arms under the tap, then rubs soap onto her skin, wincing as it soaks into her cut hands. For once I wish Ezra were here, or anybody, for that matter. I need her to talk—to tell someone what’s going on so that I can hear as well.