AFTER CLAIRE’S ROUND-ROBIN of accusations, we all became quiet and withdrawn.
We huddled under our blankets on couches and chairs or on spots on the floor.
I tried to stay awake, and I noticed Seamus and Cormac doing the same, eying one another mistrustfully.
I felt the weight of the small pistol that Seamus had given me pressing against my ankle. I wondered if this gun was the only one he held back, or if he’d secreted away another one. Or, for that matter, his badge or paperwork proving he was part of the bureau.
I kept turning over the possibility of running.
But where to run? I’d be found in the cottage or the lighthouse quickly enough. I’d freeze to death if I tried to hide outside on the island. The horrifying story that Eddie, Cormac, and Henry had shared earlier haunted me.
But the storm would surely abate. Maybe the speedboat would be too dangerous to take. But surely, once the lake calmed, the Myra would be safe enough.
Could I get to the Myra without being caught? Figure out how to start it up, run it?
I shook my head at myself. The speedboats had pull starts, simple cords. But the Myra would have an ignition key.
And that key would be securely kept by Cormac.
Shy of drugging him or killing him, I wasn’t going to get the key from him.
The northern shore of Ohio now felt thousands of miles away instead of ten or so.
Eventually, my eyelids became leaden, and I fell asleep. When I jerked awake, uncertain what had startled me, the candles had burned out but most of the coal oil lamps were still going. The fire had died down. My first thought was that we—meaning me and Maxine—would have to fill the lamps, and add more wood to the fire, and soon.
But then my gaze drifted to Seamus. Light flickered across his handsome face. I longed to go to him and gently stir him awake and lead him upstairs. It would be colder up there, but we could make our own warmth and comfort.
I noted the others: Marco, head back, mouth open. Claire on the couch, Douglas and Eddie in their chairs, all sleeping.
Cormac and Liam were gone. They’d snuck out, I guessed, to keep transferring those lockboxes to the Myra. Through the window, the sky was still pitch-black. I closed my eyes, tried to will myself back to sleep.
But then I heard Maxine desperately whisper, “Aurelia.” She was by Henry, her arm around his shoulder, her face clenched in a terrified expression. I quickly made my way over to them and immediately understood why she was so panicked—Henry’s lips had a bluish cast to them, and he was short of breath.
“He’s not responding to me!” Maxine cried out. The others stirred around us. I hurriedly looked around for the doctor—but he was also gone.
I RUSHED UP the stairs, hoping I’d find Dr. Aldridge in his room. Maybe he’d slipped up there, thinking he’d be more comfortable, if not warmer, in a bed? Or, if he were elsewhere, I could grab more of the medicine he had administered to Henry just two days before. Veronal and morphine, I recalled. But how much?
Dr. Aldridge was splayed across his bed, dressed as he had been the night before. The bed was made up. He hadn’t crawled under the covers for warmth. His eyes were still open.
On the bedside table was an empty water glass. And a bottle of Veronal. Also empty. That photo of a young man and his family.
The room smelled of human waste. In a quick glance, I saw the dark stain on the doctor’s pants at the crotch, on the bedspread. I put my hand to my mouth, stifling a gag.
Suicide? I looked again at the bedside table. No note, at least not in an obvious place.
But I didn’t have time to indulge in theories. I had to help Henry.
I spotted the doctor’s medical bag on the floor in front of the wardrobe. That was where his morphine should be—morphine he’d brought to sedate Rosita.
I dropped to my knees, opened the bag.
The bottle and syringe I’d seen him use earlier with Henry were gone. I pounded my fists to my knees in frustration. Then I jumped up, rushed back to the bedside table. Maybe the medicine was there. Maybe Dr. Aldridge hadn’t brought the morphine just for Rosita. His flushed, bleary-eyed demeanor flashed before me. Maybe he’d been an addict.
There was no bottle or syringe on the table, or in its drawer.
But this time, I noticed that the doctor’s shirt and jacket sleeves were pushed up on his right arm. There was a rusty red dash of dried blood on the inside of his wrist. A clumsy injection, odd for a doctor—
“Henry!”
Maxine’s cry, as visceral as if her very soul was being rendered, echoed all the way up to me.
I stood and ran.
“YOU HAVE TO help us! Get us on the Myra, take us to Toledo for help,” Maxine was crying as I rushed into the library. She was standing nearly against Eddie, her fists clenched as if she might start beating on his chest.
Eddie glanced over Maxine’s head at me. “Where’s the doctor?”
I gave a small shake of my head. “He’s dead.”
Several people gasped; I don’t know who. My gaze was going between Maxine and Henry, her so frantic, him so quiet and still. I didn’t have time for anyone else.
“Please, Eddie, listen to her,” I started.
“We’ve worked for you for years,” Maxine said. “Please.”
“I’m sorry. We can’t leave just yet,” Eddie said.
Because of his damned precious cargo. The lockboxes Cormac and Liam were transporting onto the Myra. Even after revealing their shared story of terror on the freighter, money mattered more to Eddie than Henry did.
I rushed over to Seamus, standing in the corner. His arms went around me immediately, but it wasn’t comfort I wanted. Still, I leaned into his embrace, taking the chance to whisper in his ear, “Cormac is occupied. We can take out Eddie now, maybe Marco too, worry about Cormac after we get Henry out to the Myra. I have the pistol you gave me and surely you—”
“I’m sorry. I can’t leave while there’s still a chance I can find whatever Rosita had—”
My body stiffened so quickly that Seamus stopped whispering. Disgust and anger rose in me. Seamus would pass on helping Henry for his chance to get incriminating evidence against Eddie. I wanted to shove him away from me. But doing so would draw attention. Better to make it look like I was simply seeking comfort from him.
I backed away slowly, but before I turned from him, I gave him a direct, cold stare. He looked sorrowful but gave his head a small shake.
“You have to help him, please, please!” Maxine was sobbing, now hitting Eddie’s chest.
“You gonna take talk like that from—” Marco started.
“Shut up!” Eddie snapped.
“Maxine, stop. Come here.” Henry’s voice was thin and reedy, a raveling thread between this life and the next.
I rushed over to Maxine, put my arm gently around her shoulder, and guided her back to her beloved. She kneeled before him. He put his trembling hand on her head, and she took his other hand in hers. I stepped back to give them space.
“It’s all right,” Henry said. “I’ve had a good life with you. And me being gone—this will free you.” He glanced at Eddie, spoke a little louder. “Right, Eddie?”
Eddie’s eyes glistened. But he cleared his throat. “Yes, Henry.”
Henry looked back at Maxine. “So you will go. Have me buried. Go to our daughter.”
I looked at Eddie. Though he was moved by Henry’s imminent passing, he’d never set Maxine free. She knew too much, had seen too much.
Maxine was crying freely now and nodding at Henry.
“And it’s better this way, because I have a confession. I killed Rosita.”
“No!” Maxine cried out.
“Yes,” Henry said. His eyes flicked to me ever so briefly, and my breath just stopped. “I was up late, unable to sleep the night after everyone arrived. I went up to the suite to talk with her, asked if she would please sell the island, talk with Eddie about letting us go to Alabama, but she laughed at me. I pushed her, and she fell back and hit her head. I knew she was dead. I went to get help and ran into Joey and promised him I’d pay him to help me move her.” A coughing fit cut off Henry’s words. After he regained his breath, his voice was raspy. “But I knew I could never pay him, so I got him outside a few days later, telling him I had money locked away in the lighthouse, and I killed him.”
“What?” Marco roared and started toward Henry.
Eddie grabbed Marco’s arm and shoved him to the couch. “So help me God, Marco, just stop.”
Claire rushed over, fell to her knees by Henry’s side. “No, Henry, you couldn’t have. Forget everything I said last night. You love Rosita and—” She stopped on a gurgling sound, like something was caught in her throat. “—and she loved you.” Tears streamed openly down her face.
“I know, honey,” Henry said. Then he moved his hand to his wife’s face.
“Come, everyone out, let’s leave them with privacy,” Douglas said. His voice came from another corner of the room. He moved to Claire, dragged her out of the library.
“But it’s warmest in here—” Marco started, then stopped as Eddie glared at him.
They followed Claire and Douglas out to the vestibule, and then Seamus and I left, too.
“To the music room,” Douglas said.
We followed him, finding seats in the frigid room.
He began playing something soft and simple and sweet, like a lullaby, his eyes closed. Whether to comfort Maxine and Henry, or to mask whatever words they might have to say to one another at the end, I’ve never been sure.
But as he played, I stared at Claire, the tears streaming down her face.
You love Rosita and—and she loved you …
What she’d just said, how she said it, echoed in my mind. Her emotion, so overwrought for Claire about the Carmichaels, struck me.
You love Rosita and—and she loved you …
That catch between the two ands.
Claire had been about to say, You love Rosita and I love you.
But it hit me all at once, not I as in Claire.
I as in Rosita.