HENRY, LIAM, AND Seamus went to search the locked buildings. I watched them leave the mansion, worried for Henry, who looked tired, already wishing I could be alone again with Seamus, and wishing to question Liam. Seamus had been heading to the southwest dock instead of helping Henry the morning before, for reasons I had yet to understand, though I was determined I would uncover them. But where had Liam been when he was supposed to help Henry? Maybe there was an innocent explanation; Liam always struck me as glib, an unlikely conspirator.
But then, I’d been shocked by Rosita’s revelations and conduct over the past twenty-four hours. And I’d shocked myself with my own behavior. At this point, I wasn’t sure anyone was as they seemed—or as I’d assumed.
Cormac and Douglas left to search the Myra and the property around the house. Maxine was dispatched to cook breakfast, while Marco sat in the library, playing cards with Dr. Aldridge, who was left to entertain Marco after complaining that he’d been sick lately and couldn’t be out in the cold. Joey stayed behind to keep a watchful eye on things.
That left Eddie, Claire, and me. He’d ordered us to go with him to the lighthouse and cottage. He didn’t say it aloud, but I think he believed that if Rosita was in either place, Claire or I would be able to reason with her to come back to the mansion and sort things out.
As we trudged along the perimeter path, only able to see a few feet ahead in the swirling snow, I pushed back a surge of excitement at the prospect of finally going into the lighthouse. I’d casually brought up the notion once to Rosita, who’d abruptly snapped that it was dangerous. Off-limits.
I’d heeded her warning, not out of fear, but out of respect. But she’d never said I should keep out of the adjacent cottage, and on a surprisingly cold summer morning last year, I found myself drawn to the tiny residence. I gave the door a try, and finding it unlocked, went inside. For a long moment, I peered into the dark shadowy corners as if the ghost of Micah Byrne—Claire and Rosita’s grandfather—might emerge. I sat in the rickety chair, opening and closing the rolltop desk, as if disturbing an old expense ledger, now falling to pieces, and the spiderwebs might be enough to call his spirit forth.
I wanted to know what it was like for him, on the island. What Rosita had really been like as a girl.
But the only spirits I ever thought I saw or heard on the island turned out to be the shadows of bird wings on the water, or the creak of tree limbs moving in the wind. My ghosts were conjured by my memories.
Finally we came around the curve of the path and the gray stone lighthouse emerged, itself like a specter in the shimmering white. My eyes were immediately drawn to the top, where the Fresnel lens was mounted, though of course the light had been dark for years. Once, shortly after I arrived on Trouble Island, when I was swimming in the lake and became weary and nearly overwhelmed by waves, I thought I saw it flashing.
The door to the lighthouse squealed on its hinges as Eddie opened it. Eddie produced the flashlight. A scurrying sound followed by a high-pitched squeal prompted a similar yelp from Claire.
“For God’s sake, it’s just mice. Doesn’t this bring back great childhood memories?” Eddie asked nastily.
“Grandfather kept the lighthouse spotless,” Claire said, and she put her hand over her nose. Even in the cold, the air was dank.
“Marco’s right—this ought to be burned to the ground,” Eddie said, and began ascending the metal stairs, his shoes clanking on each step.
Claire gave a small whimper—whether from the smell or Eddie’s callous comment, I wasn’t sure. She looked at me wide-eyed. “What if there are bats?”
“There probably aren’t,” I said reassuringly. “And if there are, they’re sleeping, right? During the day?” I nodded at the handrail. “We should hold on.”
I followed Claire, and as we wound on and on, level after level, past small dirty windows, I began to shiver in my brown-and-burgundy plaid coat, made of thin wool, envying Eddie’s heavier wool coat and Claire’s full-length fur. At least that was a warmer choice than her blue coat with the fox collar. As Eddie had pressured us to hurry up and begin our search, I hadn’t had the presence of mind to grab my gloves, and with each grip of the cold metal railing, I feared the flesh of my palm would freeze against it. Cold though I was, sweat pooled in my armpits and slicked the back of my neck.
At first I told myself that my symptoms were simply because this dizzying trudge up the stairs was harder than swimming.
But as we climbed on and on, the cylinder becoming narrower as we ascended, the gray stone closed in on me. I found it hard to breathe and my heart pounded. Panic threatened to overwhelm me.
I thought of Micah Byrne climbing these stairs each day to ensure the lighthouse lamp was perpetually fueled and burning. Especially after his wife died. What would it be like, I wondered, to live on this island all alone, year-round?
Back in Toledo, Rosita talked often of this island, about how much her grandfather loved it. She’d promised, several times, that she’d arrange for me and Pony to come visit—or maybe just me—and I told her no, Pony would be too furious if only I could come. (How ironic, then, that I am here because of—well, technically, because of what I did to him—but really, because of who he was.) For a time, she stopped talking about the island, and I knew she would never arrange that visit. But eventually, she couldn’t help but talk about the island, about how much her grandfather loved it. I told her once how odd I found his desire for only one tiny spot in the world, how I wished to travel widely, see as many places as I possibly could. She’d laughed and said, You’re not the sort of person who is strong enough, brave enough, to travel the world. That had hurt.
Now I wondered if she’d said that because she wanted to keep me tethered to her. More than that, I wished I hadn’t waited for her help to escape and start anew. I wished I hadn’t felt so sorry and beholden to her after Oliver’s death.
And then my mind turned again to Rosita saying the night before that Eddie had ruined the island for her, both by returning and by bringing Marco with him. That she had something on Eddie. Would she really leave the island, taking with her whatever she had? Hoping to ruin Eddie?
Claire moaned. “Why the hell did our grandfather have to be fascinated with lighthouses?”
“Tell me about your grandfather,” I said, my words coming out in puffing gasps. I wanted to distract her—and me. I wasn’t sure how far we’d climbed—halfway? Two-thirds? “All Rosita ever told me was how much he loved living here.”
“Oh, she didn’t mention how upset our grandmother was about coming? But Grandfather prevailed, of course. How the hell would I know why he was fascinated by lighthouses?” Claire gave a breathless, bitter laugh. “And Rosita loved it, too. I only came along because I tagged after her everywhere.”
“There weren’t things you loved about it? Especially in summer?”
“You mean the relentless mosquitos? Sweating at night, unable to sleep in that stuffy cottage? Swimming off the dock was okay, though Rosita hated swimming—too many tales of shipwrecks from our grandfather, which I happily ignored by sticking by our grandmother’s side. The fishing and hiking and bird-watching they did, or the adventures and making paths and exploring in the woods Rosita insisted I do with her?” Claire shook her head. “I hated that. But we came every year until we were sixteen. By then, we were of courting age, and our grandmother had been gone for two years. And our grandfather stayed here for four more years after that, alone, without visitors.”
I shuddered at the notion, but Claire gave a small laugh at my reaction.
“Grandpa loved being alone. A recluse. Rosita is a lot like him. And he was proud that the Trouble Island lighthouse was legendary among those who use the Great Lakes. Proud that he kept the lamp burning. Then one night, a regular ship that passed by noticed the light was not burning. The captain and a few crew came ashore to investigate.”
My heart clenched in anticipation of what she’d say next.
“They found my grandfather in the lighthouse, you know. Up in the lantern room. It was determined he’d died of a heart attack.”
I startled. Rosita had not told me this, maybe because of my comment that I found his dedication to be odd. “And no one took up his post?”
“The Canadian government decommissioned the lighthouse,” Claire said. “The lighthouses on all the nearby islands had been upgraded, and ships had developed better onboard navigation. There’s a reason this godforsaken hunk of rock is called Trouble Island. So many ships used to slam into its rocky shoreline in fog and storms.”
And then it had outlived its usefulness. Now, it was just a structure, and yet I felt sorry for the lighthouse. And for Micah.
Finally, we reached the main gallery.
Breathing heavily, Claire leaned against the wall near a stack of crates labeled as fuel, swatting at a spiderweb just above her head. Eddie was feverishly opening and slamming shut the small drawers of a desk.
“She’s not in the desk, Eddie,” Claire said with amusement in her voice.
“Goddamn it, I know that. I’m looking for something else—”
Claire and I exchanged looks. I saw that she thought as I did—he was looking for whatever Rosita had mentioned the night before. A sorrowful shadow passed over Claire’s face.
Again demure, she said, “Of course, I’m sorry, Eddie. This is all making my head spin.” I thought I saw anger in her eyes, but the expression flashed by so quickly that I wasn’t sure.
Eddie slammed a drawer shut and began climbing a narrow spiral staircase in the middle of the gallery. I instinctively followed. If Rosita was up there, hunched down in the lantern room, I didn’t want her to confront him alone.
I took ahold of the railing and started my shaking ascent. One spiral turn later, I was with Eddie in the topmost level, which was encased in thick glass windows. I wavered as if I were on a boat deck on choppy waters at the blurry sight of swirling ice and snow through the window. I focused on the Fresnel lens, circling it, fascinated by how its panes enclosed where the lantern would burn, by the gears that would turn the lens, send its light, reflected from the flame within it, strobing across the churning gray waters of Lake Erie.
Rosita was not up there. Eddie stood, his arms crossed, his chest heaving from the effort to climb up.
But I circled a second time, a third time, enchanted by the lighthouse mechanism. This lantern room was where Micah Byrne had died.
On my next round, I paused by a telescope still set up in front of one of the glass panes. I wondered if Micah had gazed through the telescope in his final moments. What his view had been. I put my right eye to the lens, saw nothing but a blur of white. I tried to focus the telescope but did not succeed in making the snowflakes come in any clearer. My thoughts stretched across time back to him. I hope it was a view you loved. A clear day, the waves rising and falling gently, the loons wheeling …
And then I saw a flash. I jumped back, nearly toppling the telescope, but catching it in time. My hands shook even as I steadied the telescope. That flash—it was as if the orb had come to life, strobing just for me. A warning? Encouragement?
I pressed my eyes shut. When I opened my eyes again, the orb was dark and still—as it had been all along. And Eddie was gone.
The next level down, I saw that only Claire was waiting for me. Eddie was already descending the stairs.
“Go on,” Claire said. “I need a moment.” She gave me a wavering smile. “Memories.”
I nodded and followed Eddie down. Soon I heard Claire’s footsteps right behind me.
As we exited the lighthouse door, my head spun. From the twirling descent. The swirling snow. The illusion—I firmly told myself of course it was my imagination—that the lighthouse orb had flashed just for me.
Henry was waiting for us just inside the lighthouse door.
His breath was labored, his words slow, but his message was clear. “The speedboat at the north dock—it’s gone. The ropes have been cut.”