She rang again, and this time he answered.
“Hunter, what is it?” he asked.
“Are you on SAR for the Benson family?”
“Yes, which is why I can’t talk now.”
“Tom, I’m at the hospital with Jake.” Her partner on the state police force. “Detective Miano is here too.”
“Jen, yeah?” Tom asked. Jen Miano had been Conor’s partner for a few years.
“She just finished talking to the dad—he’s out of surgery—and she’s going to call coast guard command, but I know how long it can take for information to get to you guys, so I wanted to make sure you heard it right away.”
“What’s she going to tell us?”
“First, that Dan said ‘they got her.’ He kept repeating it.”
“What does that mean?” Tom asked. “Was he talking about Sallie?”
“I don’t know. He was out of it. Detective Miano will ask him more when he’s awake. But listen, Tom—the kids might have made it. Dan said they were playing in the little boat, and he saw it floating away—intact—when he surfaced after the blast.”
“That was a toy raft,” Tom said. “I’ve already heard about it from our investigator.”
“No, it wasn’t a toy. He said the kids sometimes played in it, but it was an actual life raft. They could be alive. It’s completely possible.”
“Wow. Thanks, Hunter,” Tom said, hanging up fast. Then he radioed the rest of the fleet, and the SAR throttled up, taking on a whole new energy. The search was on for a small yellow boat with the two Benson children aboard.
FIVE DAYS EARLIER
8
CLAIRE
On Sunday morning I got up just before dawn. Griffin slept beside me, and I moved carefully, so I wouldn’t wake him. I turned on the coffee maker in the kitchen, then grabbed my red Patagonia fleece and walked outside. The air was chilly, the sun still below the horizon, the eastern sky starting to glow deep, clear blue.
Instead of taking the path through the woods, I climbed down rickety steps onto the beach. I walked the tide line, soothed by the sound of waves hitting the shore. As the sun rose, I began to collect shells and sea glass. Moonstones gleamed in the wet sand. They rattled as I filled my pockets. Walking the beach had always been my comfort and inspiration.
During a blizzard last December, an entire tree washed ashore. It had been uprooted by the wind, left here on our beach. Wind and waves had stripped off the bark, and what remained was a magnificent bone-white relic. With each subsequent storm, the branches and root system broke apart a little more. I always wondered where the tree had come from and stopped to look at it. Twigs and broken branches glistened in the early light; I picked up some of the smallest to add to my other treasures.
When I got to the cove, I couldn’t help going straight to the spot where I’d found Ellen Fielding’s body twenty-five years ago. I’d been coming here lately, pulled by a powerful force. Ellen and I had so much in common. We had both seen the other side of Griffin, the one he kept hidden from everyone else. I wondered if Margot had seen it too. I figured she had.
I used to place flowers in the pool where Ellen’s body had lain, but they seemed too pretty, too frivolous. So I’d started leaving pebbles, moonstones, and wishing rocks—smooth round stones perfectly encircled by a contrasting ring. I crouched down now, placed a handful of offerings just under the water’s shallow surface. It was as if no time had passed at all; I remembered the sound of the crabs. While I was there, I collected some empty crab shells and claws—no longer glossy, just dry and brittle, bleached a pale orange-red by sea and sun.
“I’m almost there, Ellen,” I whispered. “You’ve helped me get to this point. But I promise I will come back no matter what. I’m going to leave him. And I’m going to tell.”
“Who are you talking to?” Griffin asked. I jumped—so startled that I practically tumbled into the tide pool. He was standing right behind me. I hadn’t even heard him approach.
“What are you doing up so early?” I asked, my heart racing.
“Good morning to you too,” he said. He held out his hand to help me up. “I heard you leave, and I figured you’d be beachcombing. Less than a week till your show. You fiddling around on some last-minute shadow box things?”
“Yes,” I said. “There’s one I haven’t quite finished.”
“Well, it’s Sunday, my only day off, and I was hoping we could go out in the boat,” he said. “It’s a photo opportunity. The Shoreline Gazette is sending a photographer—you know, Chase family outing, humanize the candidate.”
“Everyone already loves you, Griffin,” I said. Could he read my true feelings? The idea of having to play the role of smiling wife, standing at his side during the election, shook me to the core.
“You’ll come out on the boat?” he asked.
“Of course,” I said, because of course was always the right thing to say to Griffin. “Should we have breakfast first? And let me put the stuff I collected in my studio.”
“Claire, what are you doing with dead shellfish?” he asked, noticing a pile of crab carapaces I’d placed on the rock ledge. “You want your work to sell, don’t you? Collectors aren’t going to buy if it smells like rot.” He smashed his foot down on the fragile shells.
I steeled myself, pretending not to care. At one time I would have reacted, but I had learned. There was another way.
“You’ll thank me,” he said. “When you walk into the gallery on Friday and people aren’t holding their noses. Right?”
“Right,” I said.
One of Griffin’s favorite moves was to hurt and insult me, then make me say I agreed-understood-admired him for having my best interests at heart. There was no point in fighting it.
“Why do you come here anyway?” he asked.
“I love the beach,” I said.
“I’m not talking about the beach,” he said. “I’m talking about this cove. It’s full of traumatic memories for both of us.”
“Oh, Griffin,” I said. “Remember that night when you walked me home, toward Hubbard’s Point, and you said the night was about us, that we should remember it for our kiss and for the shooting stars?”
He stared at me. Did he realize I was mocking him? This moment could go either way; I tensed, ready for the blowup. But he decided to let me stroke his ego. “You’re right,” he said. “That night was our beginning.”
“It was,” I said. I looked into his sea-green eyes and tried to remember how I had felt on the blanket, waiting for his kiss. He was still the handsomest man I knew. His gaze was penetrating—in his cases, he looked straight into the defendants, saw who they were, and used his knowledge to convict them. When he focused those eyes on me, I felt he could see into my soul. I had always felt that way.
“When I first walked up just now,” Griffin said, “I heard you say something.”
“I don’t remember,” I said, thinking: I’m going to leave him. And I’m going to tell what I know. “Talking to myself, I guess.”