Surrendering her downtime, Nina tossed the blanket aside. Today there would be no relaxing; she really had to work on that newsletter. Moments later, the issue of Real Simple lay atop a pile of other magazines on the floor by her cluttered desk.
It wasn’t until Nina had returned to the living room to get her cup of tea that she saw a police car parked in her driveway. The car’s roof-mounted light bar was off, and that gave her a moment’s comfort: not an emergency. Still, her first thought had been of the children, always the children.
Maggie was with her best friend, Laura Abel, and Connor was at a weekend football practice, punishment for the team’s lackluster performance during the previous night’s game. She wondered if he had been hurt—but surely one of the team moms would have called if something awful had happened.
Nina watched through the window as two police officers, female and male, exited the car. They were dressed identically in khaki pants and blue polo shirts with official-looking embroidery stitched over the right breast pocket, guns strapped to their waists, their expressions grave.
Under normal circumstances, Nina would have felt a stab of embarrassment at the weeds growing between the paving stones. The yard didn’t look all that great, either. Glen’s busy work schedule left little time for the honey-do list. Nina could have used vinegar to get rid of those pesky weeds herself, but somehow—hello volunteering, organizing, chauffeuring, cooking, cleaning—she never seemed to have the time. Those quick thoughts fled as she opened the door to watch the two police officers make their way up the brick front steps.
“Can I help you?” Nina asked, a slight quaver in her voice.
“Are you Nina Garrity?” asked the man. He removed his sunglasses the way cops sometimes did on TV shows, slowly and full of intent, revealing eyes that were a striking, steely light gray.
He tilted his head slightly, his edginess giving way to something more congenial. Or was it sympathy? Nina couldn’t tell.
“Yes. Can I help you? Is everything all right?” Her voice was tinged with dread.
“Is your husband at home?” the female cop asked.
“I’m sorry,” Nina said. “Who are you? What’s this about?”
“I’m Detective Yvonne Murphy, and this is my partner, Detective Eric Wheeler,” the woman said. “We’re with the Seabury Police.”
They showed her their badges.
“Are you home alone?” said Murphy.
“Yes,” Nina said. “I’m alone. Is this about Glen?”
“Glen is your husband?” Wheeler asked.
“Yes,” Nina said.
“Do you know where he is?”
Nina answered Wheeler with a single word: “Fishing.”
“What time did he leave?” asked Murphy.
“Before sunrise. Maybe four A.M. Maybe earlier—I don’t really know, I was asleep. Is everything okay?”
“Was he going with anyone else?” asked Wheeler.
Nina shook her head slightly, trying to clear her mind so she could answer correctly. Her heartbeat quickened.
“Saturday is his fishing day. With the kids so busy on the weekends he almost always goes alone,” she said.
“And do you know where he usually goes?”
Nina’s pulse ticked up another notch, her throat tightening.
“The launch near Governors Island. Tell me, what’s going on?” Her voice rose sharply.
The two detectives exchanged glances before Murphy headed back to the police car, leaving Wheeler alone on the front steps to answer Nina’s question.
“Somebody found a boat, a Starcraft, floating near that boat launch this morning,” Wheeler said.
“There was a dog aboard,” Wheeler continued, “but no operator.”
“Where’s Glen?”
“Marine Patrol and Fish and Game are searching the water right now.”
Nina’s hand went to her mouth, but not in time to stifle a gasp that became a sob. “He fell overboard?”
“We don’t know,” answered Wheeler. “We also found a Ford F-150 parked at the boat launch. We’ve towed the truck and boat to our impound lot. Registrations show this address. Checked the dog’s microchip, and believe she belongs to you.”
At that moment, Murphy opened the rear door of the patrol car and out came Daisy. She bounded up the walkway at full speed, squeezing past the detectives to get inside, eager to be home.
“I guess she’s your dog,” Wheeler said, almost with a smile.
“Yes, this is Daisy,” answered Nina as she patted her dog reassuringly. Overjoyed, Daisy reared up on her hind legs and placed her front paws on Nina’s stomach. It was a habit of hers long ago broken, but instead of saying “Down,” Nina noticed dried blood matting the fur around Daisy’s paws.
“What’s going on here?” Nina said, pointing to Daisy’s paws.
“There was some blood found.”
“Blood? Where?”
“In the boat,” said Wheeler. “Look, why don’t you take a minute to get yourself together. Make arrangements for your children if you need.”
“Why?”
“Because you should come with us to the police station,” Wheeler said. “Better if we talk there.”
* * *
AS THE memory of that terrible day faded, Nina’s eyes filled with tears. A cry broke from her lips, sending her shoulders quaking. Susanna and Ginny were at her side in a flash.
“Oh sweetie, I know it’s not the best magazine, but it’s not that bad.”
Nina managed a weak laugh before she relayed what that magazine actually signified—that day, when she first got the news.
“Have you talked to somebody?” Susanna asked with concern.
“I talk to you girls,” Nina said defensively.
“No, I mean somebody professional,” Susanna said.
“A therapist,” Ginny added, not that the clarification was needed.
Maggie and Connor were both seeing a therapist, but for some reason, Nina hadn’t found one for herself. Everything was still so raw that talking about it felt like poking an open wound. And then, when Simon came along, her life seemed to stabilize. The welcome distraction from her troubles had made it possible to suppress her feelings, but maybe no more. Maybe her friends were right. The move was a trigger, and perhaps the time had come to get real help. She should have done it ages ago. She was a social worker and honestly knew better. But then again, the cobbler’s kid not having proper shoes was a trope for good reason.
“Anybody have a recommendation?” asked Nina.
“Mine’s great,” Susanna and Ginny said simultaneously.
The three laughed and hugged, and Nina’s fresh tears felt like a cry of relief.
CHAPTER 4
Dr. Sydney Wilcox worked on the second floor of a redbrick office building, in a neighborhood dotted with small businesses. The office itself was cozy and intimate with muted walls and a beige rug. The bland aesthetic was clearly intended to encourage patients to contribute their own color and energy to the environment. The soothing gurgle of a miniature fountain blended with the nearly inaudible hum of a white noise machine put there to ensure privacy. It was all carefully orchestrated to convey one critical message: this was a safe place to share.