Saturday
Kyra jerked awake. It took a moment for her sleep-addled brain to process that she was in a hotel in Boston, not her room on Martha’s Vineyard, not her office, and certainly not her flat in London. She rubbed her eyes. There’d been a lot of change in the past few days. Her phone pinged. It was Tarek texting that he’d meet her outside in an hour. She checked her flight itinerary. She’d have enough time to go to the diner, then head to the airport for her flight back. Her stomach churned at the thought of getting back on one of those propeller planes. Maybe she’d ask Joel to drive her to Woods Hole. Kyra didn’t know what would be worse—thirty minutes of blinding terror or two hours of mind-numbing boredom.
Showered and dressed, Kyra sipped on her coffee while watching the hustle and bustle on the street below. It reminded her of her street back in London. Her flat was in a busy part of town, a short walk from her office. She’d rented it years ago for its proximity to work but had never gotten around to really moving in. It’d never felt like a home.
If I go back, I really need to find a new place to live.
“If I go back?” Kyra sat down on the edge of the bed. Of course, I’m going back. She felt like she was scolding herself, but the thought of returning to solitary life in London left her feeling cold and empty.
Her phone buzzed, and she grabbed for it, fumbling as she pulled the cord from the wall. The detective was downstairs.
Tarek strolled up to the front of the hotel, just as Kyra was exiting. He seemed more relaxed today. He greeted her with a smile that Kyra couldn’t help but return it.
“Good morning.”
“How was it?” he asked, tilting his head toward the hotel.
“Great. Grace set me up.”
“Hungry?”
“Famished.”
“Come on. It’s just up the street.”
Despite the chill, the Boston Common was full of people in the middle of their morning routines—jogging, hurrying to work, walking their dogs.
Kyra followed Tarek to an old-fashioned, cafeteria-style breakfast place, the kind with retro plastic tables and mismatched chrome-and-vinyl chairs, the varying colors, all slightly faded. The laminate tiles in front of the counter were so worn through Kyra could make out the subfloor beneath.
The Theatre Café was busy with the late-morning crowd. She studied the menu posted above the counter while they waited their turn.
“Tarek Collins!” A voice pierced the busy din.
Kyra turned to see a grinning gray-haired woman walking toward them. She wore an apron with the restaurant’s name screen printed across the front.
“Donna,” Tarek said.
Kyra’s mouth fell open when he wrapped his arms around the woman.
Barely recovered, Kyra shut her mouth and plastered on a polite smile.
“How are you?” Donna held him at arm’s length and looked him up and down, assessing him with motherly concern.
“I’m fine, Donna.” Tarek’s eyes shone with affection.
She gripped his forearm, pulling him to her side. Her eyes flicked to Kyra, then back to Tarek.
“This is Kyra.”
“So nice to meet you.” Donna beamed and clasped Kyra’s hands. “I have a table for you.” She ushered them to a table in the corner, then called back over her shoulder, “Antonio! Tarek is here. He brought a friend.” She pointed to a chair. “Sit.”
“You said you knew this place, not that you were a regular,” Kyra hissed through her teeth as she dropped into her seat.
“I haven’t been a regular in a while.” Tarek shrugged. “I hope you really are hungry. Donna’s going to bring whatever she wants us to eat.”
A server brought over two thick ceramic mugs of hot coffee. Kyra wrapped her hands around the cup, snaking her fingers through the handle. Donna joined them, gripping her own coffee mug with faded lettering that read World’s Greatest Grandma.
“Tarek. We didn’t know you were in town. How long has it been? When was the last time you were here?”
“I stopped by last month, remember? We set up your new router?”
“Oh, yes. That’s right. That feels like so long ago, but it works.” She pointed to a television playing a staticky local news show. Kyra felt Tarek sag next to her and bit back a laugh.
“I’ll come back and set up the TV for you, but I’m actually here on business today.”
“You work too hard.” Donna tsked, but she smiled with unabashed pride. “You’ll eat first.” She turned to Kyra. “When he was attending school, he spent all his time here. He worked during the day and studied all night. We couldn’t get rid of him.” Donna’s smile widened.
“You worked here?” Kyra asked, trying to picture a young, stern Detective Collins serving coffee and wearing an apron.
“I did.” His eyes sparked, daring her to laugh. “I cooked. Antonio, Donna’s husband, taught me.” Tarek pointed to the kitchen.
“You can cook?”
“Of course he can,” Donna scoffed. “But he spent more time studying than cooking.”
“You went to school near here?” Kyra asked.
“Up the road, at Boston University.” He pointed behind them.
“Yes. He’s a doctor.”
“No, Donna, I only have a Master’s.”
Donna bit the inside of her cheek, and her eyebrows hitched together.
Tarek turned to Kyra, his cheeks pink, and shifted in his seat. The stoic detective had morphed into something else under Donna’s boasting. His embarrassment was charming. Kyra tipped her head to the side, a silent question.
“Psychology,” he muttered, and she grinned at his discomfort. “But, Donna, actually, I really do have a few questions for you, if you don’t mind?”
“For me? Antonio!” she bellowed toward the kitchen. “Tarek needs us.”
A member of Donna’s staff, followed by two more, appeared bearing plates of food—eggs, bacon, sausage, pancakes, fruit, three different types of toast. Kyra’s eyes widened watching the parade of breakfast. She met Tarek’s eyes. He smiled apologetically and shrugged as if to say, I told you. Donna directed her staff and organized the table, her rings clinking on the Fiestaware plates.
“More coffee?” Tarek asked.
Kyra nodded.
Donna scooted back in her chair.
“No, sit. I’ll get it.” Tarek went behind the counter and returned with a carafe and a carton of almond milk. He handed Kyra the carton and topped them all off and filled a fourth mug. He handed the carafe back over the counter as a man shuffled over. The man must have been in his seventies, slightly stooped. He was dressed in thin, stained jeans at least two sizes too large, held up with clip-on suspenders.
“Tarek!” He clasped Tarek’s hand in both of his and gave him a wide, toothy grin. “Sit! Sit! You need my help?” he asked in a thick Italian accent.
“Have you ever seen this man?” Tarek showed them a photo of Ed Gibson on his phone.
Antonio pulled his glasses from his breast pocket and peered at the screen. “Yes, of course. Edoardo. Such a nice man. So sad.”
Donna pulled the phone close to her face, her nose nearly touching the screen. “Yes, that’s Edward.” She confirmed with a chin dip, her expression serious.
“You knew him?” Kyra asked.
“Mmmhmm. Why?”
“How did you know him?” Tarek asked.
“Edoardo was a good customer for many years. He came first alone, like you, always studying, then working, then he came with his Isabella. So sad.” Antonio shook his head.
Kyra looked up. Isabel? My mother?
“He always made a point to see us when he was in Boston. The last few years, he’d stop in on his way to or from the Cape. Before he died, he was stopping in regularly, often with a young man.” Donna patted her husband’s hand.
“This man?” Tarek pulled up a picture of Brendan Delaney.
“Yes. That’s him. Nervous fellow.” Antonio pursed his lips.
“You knew my parents?”
The older couple swiveled their heads to look at her.
“Ed and Isabel Gibson? You knew them? Both?”
“You’re Edward’s little girl?” Donna squinted at her, studying Kyra’s features.
“Yes. I didn’t know they lived in Boston.”
“Oh, yes. It must have been over thirty years ago, now.” Donna nodded. “They lived just up that way.” She waved to the city beyond the diner walls.
“They moved to New York City,” Antonio chimed in, eyeing Kyra with a sympathetic smile. “But Edoardo never forgot his friends here.”
That sounded like her dad, cultivating relationships all over the world.
Something inside of her cracked.
He had the time to see a couple that ran a diner but not his own kid.
She steeled herself, and plastered on a pleasant smile, determined not to let these people know that their words affected her. She caught Tarek watching her, his head tilted, and she looked down at her hands clasped under the table.
“Do you know why he and Mr. Delaney were coming in so often?” Tarek asked.
“Edward was writing a story. Do you know what he was writing about, Antonio?”
“Wind, I think?” Antonio said, rubbing his chin.
“Wind?” Tarek repeated.
“The young man carried a backpack. It had a picture of a windmill and a bird.” Donna talked with her hands. Her rings flashed under the fluorescent lights.
Tarek pulled up the homepage of Wetun Energy. Its logo was a silhouette of a seagull flying in front of a wind turbine. Antonio pulled his glasses back out of his pocket and peered through the lenses. The corners of his mouth drew down.
“Yes, that’s it,” Antonio said, jabbing a thick finger at the phone screen.
“Did they tell you what they were discussing? Did you overhear them?” Tarek pushed.
“The young man was always whispering. Could never hear what he ordered.” Antonio heaved a heavy sigh.
Tarek’s phone rang. He glanced at the screen and excused himself, pressing the phone to his ear. Antonio pointed him toward the back of the restaurant, but he didn’t get more than ten feet when he turned around, catching Kyra’s eye.
“Donna, Antonio, we need to get back to the island. This information has been very helpful. Thank you.”
“Detective Tarek, always busy solving crimes.” Antonio chuckled and waved to someone behind the counter. An employee brought over a paper bag and a coffee tray. “Take! Take.”
Kyra eyed the table, dismayed at all the virtually untouched food.
Donna stood and embraced Tarek. She put her hand to his cheek. “Come back soon.” She turned to Kyra, giving her a hug. “You, too.”
Kyra went rigid in Donna’s embrace and awkwardly patted her on the back.
Antonio and Donna followed them to the door and waved them out.
“What I don’t understand,” Kyra mumbled, “is why my dad was talking to Brendan at all. What information could he have had? Was it about Wetun? He was an old ex-employee. That doesn’t mean he’d have access to proprietary information. Or was it about Senator Hawthorn? It doesn’t sound like they interacted with each other.” She glanced up at the detective, wondering what he thought, but Tarek wasn’t listening.
He was already back on the phone. From the one-sided conversation, it sounded like he was talking to someone at the station. Kyra half listened, wondering if he was going to share what he learned.
“There’s been suspicious activity on Brendan’s bank accounts with large deposits from an anonymous offshore account.”
Kyra chanced a peek at his face. Was he actually sharing information? Trusting her? Was she a colleague? A partner? She smiled to herself at the idea of being a partner like in a buddy-cop show.
“I’m driving back to the island now. Are you flying, or do you want a ride?”
“You don’t mind?” Kyra asked, relief pooling in her stomach. She’d been dreading the flight and Joel’s history lessons.
“No.” He shook his head. “It’s self-serving. I really need to see your dad’s notes.”
It was like being doused with a bucket of icy water.
Oh.