When Kyra returned to the kitchen, she found the large cat lounging on the island atop her father’s folder. Pages were splayed out from her careless toss. “Well, I guess it’s just you and me now,” she said to the cat, and was rewarded with a yawn and a tail flick. “Fine, you’re right. Let’s see what was so important.” Armed with a glass of wine and a snack, she sat on one of the barstools and reached for the file. Cronkite moved off the folder but remained on the kitchen island, watching. Kyra reached out to give him a pat, but he avoided her touch.
The folder contained articles from various newspapers, as well as handwritten notes and other printouts. Many were on the subject of wind energy and a company called Wetun Energy Industries headquartered in Boston. Wetun? She drummed her fingernails on the granite countertop, recalling the mess on her father’s desk. I think they were involved in the senator’s scandal. She pulled the pages closer.
Her father had printed out Wetun’s financial statements. The company had performed well for years under the leadership of its previous CEO. Under his guidance, Wetun Energy Industries had successfully secured contracts for large wind projects all over the country, including in Texas, Oregon, and Indiana; however, after a change in leadership, Wetun’s luck has taken a turn for the worse. Dr. Maria Alonda took over five years ago, and since taking the mantle, she had seen year-over-year declines in revenue and significant cost increases.
According to her father’s notes, last summer Wetun had submitted a proposal to the Energy and National Resources Committee seeking approval to build a wind farm off the coast of Massachusetts. If awarded the contract, Wetun Energy would receive funding to build and maintain the wind farm, as well as secure an exclusive contract to provide electricity to the entirety of southeastern Massachusetts. The contract was worth billions and would make the company profitable for the first time in years.
Kyra set the papers about Wetun aside and flipped through the next stack. Her father had printed out transcripts from sessions of the Energy and Natural Resources Committee, as well as information on Senator Phil Hawthorn. Another article from an architecture magazine was a feature on the “Green Residence” at Mander Lane Farm, built by Forrest & Co., Inc. She skimmed through the article, an interview with Wes Silva and Margot Hawthorn, the senator’s wife. Hmm. Wes Silva’s company built the senator’s house, too.
She turned to the last pages. They were stamped by the US Department of Justice and dated last September fifteenth. So much of the report was redacted, Kyra couldn’t be entirely sure, but it might be the results of the DOJ’s investigation into Senator Hawthorn. The conclusion was insufficient evidence to support a charge. “So much for innocent until proven guilty,” she muttered, as she read another page, this one of notes from an interview between Ed and an unnamed person from late December on the activities of “A.”
Kyra’s phone rang. “Hello?” she answered, distracted.
“Miss Gibson? This is Detective Collins.”
“Oh, yes.”
“I’m on my way to your house. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
Kyra was about to protest, but he hung up. She stared at the phone for a second before turning her attention back to the cat.
“What is wrong with these bloody people? Is it normal to just invite yourself here?”
Cronkite’s tail tapped a piece of notepad paper that had slid out from the folder. She picked it up. It was a list of handwritten phone numbers, numbered one through twelve. She recognized a few of them, including one as the direct line to her office in London, and the 212 number was her father’s colleague at the Times. The last one, just a partial—only six digits—was circled at the bottom of the page. An extension?
“That’s weird.” Why did he give this to Grace? What was he looking into?
Her father had a habit of hiding his research and notes to protect them against loss or theft, but he’d been retired for years. And environmentalism really hadn’t been his thing. He preferred grittier stories, often involving warlords or coups. He loved the danger. Loved bearing witness to the fallout. She’d read everything he’d written.
Kyra fanned the pages out on the island. “What were you doing?” she whispered.
A knock at the front door disrupted Kyra’s thoughts, and she slid the papers back into the folder. She opened the door and came face-to-face with the handsome man from the state police website. He was dressed quite unridiculously in the television detective uniform of dark jeans, a light blue oxford shirt, and a loose tie.
“Miss Gibson?” He opened his wallet and showed her his badge. “Good evening. I’m Detective Collins with the Massachusetts State Police Investigative Department.”
“Yes, hello.” She stepped aside and waved him into the house. “Come in,” she said.
He entered the foyer and dutifully wiped his feet on the mat. He stood to the side to let her shut and lock the door. She led him into the kitchen and gestured to the barstools at the island.
“Can I get you anything?” She pointed to her wineglass.
“A water, please,” he said and slid onto a seat.
She poured him a glass of water, placed it in front of him, and returned to her own seat at the furthest end of the island. She sipped her wine, waiting for the detective to say something, but after a few moments of silence, when it became clear he wasn’t going to, she spoke first.
“Thank you for taking the time to come out here. I really just have some questions about how my father died. I was hoping you could tell me what happened?”
The detective nodded and cleared his throat. “Yes, as you know, I was the detective assigned to the case involving the death of Edward Gibson.” He spoke like he was delivering an official briefing, slow and formal. The detective sipped his water. “He died from drowning. Our theory is he hit his head, either during the fall or while in the water, possibly on the hull of a boat docked in the Edgartown harbor. The official ruling was accidental.”
“The official ruling?” She’d caught the slight change in his tone. Frustration? Irritation? “And what about the unofficial ruling?”
“Pardon?”
“Please, just tell me what happened, exactly,” she said, forcing her voice to soften and giving him what she hoped was the encouraging smile of a bereft daughter.
“We believe he was on a yacht owned by Senator Hawthorn, The Island Pearl, when he fell overboard, struck his head, and unable to climb out of the water, he drowned.”
“Was he visiting the senator?”
“No. To our knowledge, he was the only person on the boat. His jacket was found on the vessel.”
Kyra studied the detective’s face. “He was on the boat alone? Why?”
“We don’t know.” The detective spun his water glass on the countertop, avoiding eye contact. “The Hawthorn family claim they had no knowledge that Mr. Gibson was on the vessel.” There was something about the way Detective Collins wouldn’t look at her.
The tense set to his shoulders made Kyra review all he’d just said.
She took a sip of wine. “You don’t believe it was an accident.” The words came out breathy, realizing the truth of her statement as she spoke it.
“Ma’am?” His gaze finally found hers, his eyes widened, and in the light, she noticed they were green. He shifted his weight in his seat.
“You could have told me all this over the phone in only a few minutes. You didn’t need to come all the way out here. There must be some reason. I’m guessing you wanted something from the house? You think there’s something here? Or just wanted to get a feel for me.”
Detective Collins stayed silent, but she noticed his lips twitch, almost like he was trying not to smile.
“Did you recover his laptop or his phone?”
The hint of smile disappeared, and he shook his head.
“No, neither item was recovered. It’s likely that the phone had been on his person, and it was lost to the bottom of the harbor.” He drank down a bit of his water. “His wallet was zipped in his jacket pocket and, as I said, that was found on the vessel.” Collins stared at his glass and frowned, the space between his eyes crinkling. He pressed his lips together, as if silently arguing with himself, and sighed. “Look, Miss Gibson.”
“Kyra.”
“Kyra.” He gave her a nod. “The case is officially closed. I don’t want to give you hope, or worse, dredge up painful memories. It was a tragic accident.”
“I assure you, Detective, I’m not an aggrieved child trying to process her father’s death. I just want to understand what happened.”
He quirked an eyebrow at her tone.
“The facts don’t make sense.” She played with her wineglass stem, debating whether to tell him about her concerns, her unanswered questions, the suspicions that had been forming since she arrived. With a deep breath, she let it tumble out. “He didn’t drive himself to town that night. Both sets of car keys are here. I haven’t seen the jacket or wallet you found, so it’s unlikely the keys would have been returned but not his other possessions, correct?” She didn’t wait for his response. “And why would he be alone on someone else’s boat? Why would he be on any boat in January? We weren’t close, Detective Collins, but Ed Gibson wasn’t a sailor.”
“There was a nor’easter that night with heavy rains and strong wind,” Collins offered. “We believe he may have sought shelter on the boat.”
“He was in a town but sought shelter from a storm on someone else’s boat? Then he took off his jacket but remained on the deck and fell off?” Kyra’s eyes met his, challenging him. “Seriously, you don’t believe that.”
“No.” He sighed, shaking his head. “No, I don’t. I agree with your instincts that the narrative doesn’t make sense.”
“What if I told you he was working on a story?”
Collins looked up; his eyes darkened with interest. She pushed the file toward him.
“He gave this to some friends to hold on to before he died. It contains his research for a story he was looking into involving the senator and a contract for an offshore wind farm.”
Collins opened the folder and scanned the contents. “Where was this?” he asked, flipping through the documents.
“Grace Chambers, the neighbor, had it. According to her, she forgot about it with the accident, then it just didn’t seem important until I arrived. I don’t think she looked through it.”
“Do you have a draft of the story? Anything more?”
“Not that I’ve found, but I’ll keep looking.”
Detective Collins’s eyes moved back and forth, taking in the information.
“It seems like an odd coincidence that he was investigating an energy contract associated with Senator Hawthorn, and then he died on his boat, don’t you think?”
The detective collected the papers, returning them to the folder, his lips set in a thin line. “I don’t believe in coincidences,” he mumbled.
“Neither do I, Detective.” Kyra glared at him, annoyed at the half-assed job of the police. Their story was absurd. “I appreciate you giving me the information you have. I’ll look into this further on my own.” Kyra shifted forward to stand up, dismissing the detective, but he ignored her, his frown deepening as if he was weighing his options and didn’t like any of them.
His eyes met hers, and he motioned for her to stay seated. “As you’re aware, a body was discovered in the aftermath of the fire at Mander Lane Farm this afternoon.”
At her blank expression, he raised his eyebrow.
“It’s all over the news. I gave a statement a few hours ago.”
Kyra shook her head.
“The fire department determined that an accelerant was used to start and spread the fire quickly. It’s unlikely it was set accidentally. A body was found in the debris.” He paused, watching her, and she motioned for him to continue. “It’s purely speculation at this point, since I don’t have confirmation on cause of death from the medical examiner, but it’s possible the victim was caught in the fire, or it could have been set after the victim died. Needless to say, the Hawthorns are involved in another suspicious death on the island.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“It will be purely unofficial. I’m not authorized to open closed investigations without fresh evidence.”
Kyra frowned, still not following where the detective was going.
“But,”—he paused his green eyes glinting—“since I’m already here to investigate the incident at the farm, I can take another look at Ed Gibson’s case file and make some inquiries on your behalf. I can’t promise I’ll find anything more than what you already know.”
Kyra nodded. This could be wasted energy, but if she could get a little more information before she left, maybe it’d ease some of her guilt for not asking more questions when he died. For pretending she didn’t care. Maybe she’d learn it was just an accident. Kyra finished her wine its tangy notes sour with self-reproach.
“Okay, I’d appreciate that, Detective. Thank you.”
“If you find anything else that may be important, please give me a call.” He stood and fished a business card out of his wallet. It slid across the granite, stopping in front of her. “I can see myself out. Goodnight, Miss Gibson.”