Rachel starts to call her family in Ohio to tell them the news. The kitchen is full of her voice, her laughter. Nate and I do the dishes. As he scrapes, I rinse and put things in the dishwasher, carefully choosing the right slots for the serving pieces, the pitchers, the gravy boat. He scrubs the pots while I wipe down the counters. He puts away the leftovers while I dry the crystal. We do all this half-listening to Rachel.
Yes, they just called me…
I don’t know, we haven’t looked up flights yet, but maybe Saturday…
Lots of paperwork and things, but we’ll maybe be back in two weeks…
I know, it will be cold, we have plenty of warm things for the baby…
You will? Oh, you doll, you, thank you…
Isn’t it strange, I think, that Nate has no one to call? He’s about to be a father, after all.
Every so often, he puts his hand on Rachel’s shoulder as he goes by. There is so much trust in the way she covers his hand with her own. He leans over and kisses the top of her head.
My hands shake, and I can’t see for a moment, as rage fills me up. These are things he did with mom. He touched her gently. He smiled at her. He listened to her plans. And all the time, he was waiting to leave us. Wanting to leave us.
Did he steal from mom, too? I don’t know. It’s not something she would have told me, I realize. She would rather me think of my dad as a flake than a crook.
After all the dishes are done and the leftovers put away, Nate sits at the kitchen table with Rachel to make plans. I go upstairs. On the way, I sneak back into Rachel’s office. I slip out the photograph of Nate at the Bastille Day party. I tuck it in my pocket. I need something to show Joe, proof that Nate had known Hank Hobbs.
Turn my own dad in? You betcha.
Here is what I think happened twenty years ago.
Billy Applegate broke into Hank Hobbs’s house and stole the incriminating memo. But somehow Nate got hold of it—stole it from Billy and gave it back to Hank Hobbs—for a price. That’s how he got the money for the down payment. Maybe he never expected to go through with the house, but he did.
Billy suspected Nate and confronted him at the house. Nate killed him.
And then, years later, Nate bumps into Hank Hobbs somewhere, probably in Seattle. Hobbs remembers him as the guy he’d bribed all those years ago. Maybe something happened, maybe something clicked, maybe Hank Hobbs suddenly realized that Nate had killed Billy. So Nate killed Hank Hobbs. Nate pushed him off the boat and watched him drown.
It all makes sense, but I feel like I’m missing something.
I toss and turn for a long time, but I finally fall asleep. I fall into a dream so deep, I can’t wake up.
I dream that I’m breathing dirt. There’s mud in my mouth and nose, and I can’t get it out.
I’m being sucked down through the bed. Things are sliding against my skin, dragging against me. I feel oozy mud between my fingers, between my toes, in my mouth. I am drowning in a swamp.
Spiky branches are above me, and I try to grab them. Ferns crumble in my fingers.
It seems to take an enormous effort to wake myself up. I spring up from the bed and run to the bathroom. I switch on the light and splash my face with cold water. Over and over until I can breathe again.
When I come up, pushing my wet hair behind my ears, I suddenly know, with a blazing certainty, why Nate was on Beewick. It wasn’t just to kill Hank Hobbs.
The wetlands reclamation project.
The land is being drained. On Saturday.
And the body of Billy Applegate will surface.
Did he hope the killing of Hank Hobbs would delay it? Stop that last-minute million-dollar grant? He was wrong.
Did he hope to find out more, to find out exactly when the draining would happen? Did Shay tell him? Is that why he’s planning to leave Rachel, before the body is found and a murder investigation is reopened?
I need to get back. I need to find out. I need to know where Billy Applegate lies.
The next day, I wait in my room until he leaves on an errand. I pull on my jacket and make sure the photograph is still in my pocket. I can’t let them know I’m leaving, because I’m afraid he’ll track me down.
She’s sitting at the kitchen table, a teapot next to her elbow and a mug of tea in one hand, while she writes a list with the other.
“Hey, sleepyhead,” she says. “There’s so much to remember, I’m making lists like crazy. Can I get you breakfast? Lunch?”
“I thought I’d go for a run.”
“A run? But it’s raining.”
“It’s always raining.”
She laughs. “True. Seize the day, I guess—I’ll stick with hot tea. I’ll have some breakfast for you when you get back.”
I can’t tell her. I can’t tip him off. But I can’t leave her like this, either.
“You’ve been really nice to me,” I say. “I just wanted to tell you—I’m really glad about Sonia. She couldn’t have a better mother.”
Her eyes fill with tears. “That means a lot.”
I go to the door and open it. “Just…be careful.”
I shut the door on her puzzled frown. And then I start to run.
I catch the bus to Seattle. I have to wait another hour to catch the next bus, the one that will take me to the ferry. It’s late. By the time I board, it’s past two o’clock.
The bus lets me off at the ferry. I am so glad when my feet hit the deck. I stand at the railing, my back to the line of cars driving aboard. I face the island in the distance.
The ferry ride is so short that most people don’t get out of their cars. Just the pedestrians, like me, and the bicyclists, and a few people wanting to stretch their legs before we dock.
I am lucky. I see Nate racing up the stairs before he sees me. I see him searching the deck, his head swiveling. I feel his urgency and his anger.
I duck down the left stairway, down to the deck where the cars are. I keep my head low. He’ll have to get back into his car in three minutes, when the ferry docks. I am so glad it’s only a twelve-minute trip.
I don’t see him again. I stay hidden. The ferry begins its docking maneuvers. Car engines start up. The slow exodus begins, people patiently lining up and driving off.
I see his Volvo bump off the ferry and zoom away.
I don’t have much time.