After three years of being her partner, Conor knew what she was about to say.
“Of course,” he said. “I’ll call you if anything in our investigation points back to yours.”
“Shit, Conor,” Jen said. “Back together again.”
17
TOM
The children’s hospital was quiet. It was late afternoon on Memorial Day, and the shifts had just changed. It seemed to Tom Reid that there was pretty much a skeleton staff. On such a pretty day, the first holiday weekend of summer on the Connecticut shoreline, the corridors were quiet and mostly empty.
Tom walked down the gleaming first-floor hallway, carrying a black duffel bag with the USCG insignia on it. He stopped at the nurses’ station, said he was planning to visit Gwen Benson, and asked for her room number.
“Are you a relative?” the nurse asked. She was petite with long brown curls. Her name badge said Mariana Russo, RN.
“No,” he said, showing her his ID.
“Coast guard? We’ve had the police here, talking to her. Even a reporter from the Shoreline Gazette trying to get in.”
“Has she said anything?” Tom asked.
“No,” Mariana said. “She’s completely shut down. We’re limiting who goes into her room. She’s been through enough of a trauma—having strangers asking questions just adds to it.”
“I understand,” Tom said. “I don’t have any questions for her. I just want to see her. I’m the one who pulled her out of the life raft.”
“Oh,” Mariana said, looking at him more closely. “It’s nice to meet you. From what I’ve heard, her rescue was a total long shot.”
“It was,” he said.
Mariana was silent, seeming to consider whether she should allow Tom into Gwen’s room or not.
“It might help her to see you,” she said. “But I don’t know. She got agitated when her father walked into the room. They brought him over from Easterly Hospital to visit her. The mental health staff thinks it’s probably because he brings back memories of what happened. Or maybe it was seeing him all bandaged up—kids don’t like to see their parents hurt.”
Tom nodded, picturing what had been left of the boat, the evidence of explosion. He wondered how much Gwen had seen of the aftermath. He wondered whether she had seen her mother’s body, whether she knew that the search for Charlie had been called off.
“Other than her dad, her only visitor has been her aunt,” Mariana said. “Her mother’s sister, Lydia.”
“How many times has her father been here?”
“Twice. Both times she got so upset her doctor thought they should take it slow.” She looked at Tom for a few seconds. “I’m going to let you in for a few minutes. But you’ll have to leave right away if there’s any sign of distress. She made a very high-pitched sound when her father was here.”
“I’ve heard it,” Tom said. “When we found her. She was peeping, like a little bird. Nonstop, even after we brought her to the ER.”
“Then you know.”
“I do,” he said, holding tight to the duffel.
They walked into a room directly across from the nurses’ station. The curtain had been pulled to shield Gwen from the eyes of people passing in the hallway. Mariana beckoned Tom to follow her.
Gwen lay completely still in bed. The red burn patches on her cheeks, chin, forehead, and where her eyebrows had been looked raw and were covered with salve—it looked as if she had a bad sunburn. The charred ends of her silvery hair had been trimmed away. Her eyes were full of almost unimaginable sadness. Her gaze followed Tom and Mariana as they entered.
“Gwen, you have a visitor,” Mariana said.
“Hi, Gwen,” Tom said. “Do you remember me?”
Although she didn’t speak or nod her head, he saw in her eyes that she recognized him. She seemed very calm. She didn’t make a sound.
“I’m very glad to see you,” Tom said. And he was. Emotion filled his chest. He remembered picking her up, lifting her into the rescue basket, and holding her hand during the helicopter ride. Mariana had been right—it was beyond a long shot that Gwen had been found at all.
Mariana indicated that he should sit in the chair by Gwen’s bed, and he did. He sat silently, gazing at Gwen, and she returned his gaze: a form of communication. A bell sounded from the hall—a patient summoning a nurse. Mariana stayed in the room for another minute. Then, seeming satisfied that Gwen was okay, she quietly left.
“You’re such a brave girl,” Tom said.
Gwen stared hard into his eyes.
“Finding you was one of the most important moments I have ever had in the coast guard,” he said. “It meant so much to all of us, Gwen. Everyone who was searching for you. And now, seeing you here right now, knowing you’re getting better—that is the best news we could have.”
She closed her eyes. Two big tears rolled down her cheeks. Tom knew she was far from okay.
“I wanted to bring you something,” he said. “A book, a game, a stuffed animal—I just wasn’t sure what you might like. I asked my wife and stepdaughters, and they had some good ideas. But I started thinking, and then I knew.”
Her eyes opened, and she waited for him to tell her.
He unzipped the duffel bag, and he saw her watching him carefully, following his movements. He reached inside, pulled out the tiny dog. She was so small, barely bigger than his hand. He held her toward Gwen, who gasped and reached out her arms.
“Maggie!” Gwen cried.
Tom placed the Yorkshire terrier in Gwen’s arms, watched Gwen bury her face in Maggie’s fur, kissing the back of her head as Maggie squirmed with joy.
Mariana entered the room, gave Tom a hard look.
“Really?” she asked.
“I picked her up from the vet,” he said.
“Dogs aren’t allowed in here.”
“I figured,” he said and grinned. Watching Gwen pet and kiss Maggie, Mariana smiled too.
Tom knew that when Mariana said he had to leave, he would take Maggie home and keep her until Dan and Gwen were discharged. But for now, he just sat beside Gwen’s bed, watching the reunion between a girl and her dog, trying to swallow past the lump in his throat.
THREE DAYS EARLIER
18
CLAIRE
Today I planned to bring the last pieces over to the gallery and help Jackie get ready for Friday. I had finally finished Fingerbone. I stood in my studio, doors open to a sea breeze and the sound of breaking waves, and leaned over the shadow box I had constructed to resemble a tidal pool.
I examined the placement of mussel shells, barnacles scraped from granite at low tide, crab claws, fragments of their carapaces, and sun- and sea-bleached twigs—each small section forming a knuckle and bones, fashioned together to look like the grasping hand of a skeleton.
People with no idea about Ellen’s death wouldn’t understand, but I did, and one other person would, and that was the whole point. There were ways to go about a divorce, but I would take nothing monetary from Griffin—not the house or alimony or any material object. I wanted only for him to know that I knew, without any doubt, exactly who he was and what he had done.