“I know what you’re doing here,” Piper said, her voice quiet.
Anders went cold, every single muscle in his body immediately constricting at once. “You do?” He tried to gauge the anger in her voice, but it was impossible. Had she heard the podcast? He had passed the cell tower construction—it wasn’t even halfway done yet. But maybe she’d gone to the mainland, listened to it there? Was that why she had brought him out here—to scream at him in private?
“Yeah. You’re not the first person to do it either.”
“What?” Anders was genuinely confused now.
“All kinds of people have come to Frick Island over the years. Most of them stay a weekend, gawk at our quaint, outdated lifestyle, and never return. But every once in a while you get one that comes back. Or stays longer than he expects. Or never leaves at all.”
Anders wasn’t sure where she was going with this little speech, but he nearly choked on his words, he was so eager to assure her there was no risk of him moving here. Piper wasn’t finished.
“They come from all walks of life—young and old, Ivy League educated, union workers—it doesn’t matter. There’s one thing they all have in common.” Piper paused and Anders leaned forward despite himself. She turned and looked at Anders full-on. “They’re running from something.”
There was no malice in her expression, no judgment at all, really. Her face was bare, eyes sharp and shiny, and Anders found himself momentarily stunned by the visceral reaction he had to her full attention. There was something in the way she was looking at him. As though she could really see him.
“Running,” he repeated.
She gave a small, barely perceptible nod, kindness and understanding pooling in her eyes, and Anders had the overwhelming desire to tell her things. Which surprised him, as Anders hadn’t ever wanted to tell anyone anything in his life. Not anything important or meaningful, anyway. He preferred to keep his thoughts locked up tight in his brain, where they belonged.
Instead, he broke eye contact and chuckled. “You think I’m running,” he repeated. “Did you even see me?” He gestured with his thumb back toward the path. “I got winded on a bike ride.”
Piper half grinned and then abruptly stood, brushing off the back of her shorts. “I’ve gotta go. Tom should be getting in anytime now.”
“Wait! I have more questions.”
“I assume you’ll be back next weekend, yes? You know where to find me.” And with that, she turned on her heel and walked off. Anders searched his brain to find another reason to call her back, but came up empty. So he just watched her go, until she disappeared behind the dunes.
He turned his face up to the sun and closed his eyes, waiting for the pleasant feeling to overcome him once again; the loosening of limbs, the tranquility pooling in his belly. It was confounding because the same sun baked his skin, the same slurping of the waves filled his ears, the same hard granite pressed against the bones of his backside.
But the feeling never came.
Chapter 16
A cool breeze blew through the open window in Anders’s room on the second floor of the bed-and-breakfast. The temperature, for once, was perfect. The bed, comfortable. Anders had even gotten used to the dead quiet of the nights, but he still couldn’t sleep. He should have been on cloud nine for finally getting to interview Piper. It was nothing mind-blowing, of course, but it was a step in the right direction to make the next episode better. Problem was, Anders wasn’t entirely sure he should make another episode. When he started, Piper had been a subject; an interesting character in an improbable story. But something changed on the beach, and instead of a character, a subject, he started seeing her for what she was—a person. An insect-loving person who was suffering from a bizarre delusional disorder and had terrible taste in Girl Scout cookies (everyone knew Do-si-dos were superior), but a person nonetheless. And being less than honest with her about the main focus of his reporting had grown from a pit in his stomach to a bowling ball. People were starting to lose interest anyway, he reasoned, and it wasn’t as if he had some new bombshell to add to the story. Perhaps it was time to move on.
Except, Anders didn’t want to move on. And therein lay the rub.
When the long hand of the clock ticked to 12:42, tired of tossing and turning, Anders slipped out of bed and stood at the dark window. The moon bathed the calm bay waters in a stroke of broken white light. And Anders had the sudden urge to be closer to it. To see it without the barrier of the window. He shoved his bare feet in his canvas slip-ons and opened the door to his room, stopping abruptly when the hinges let out a loud squeaky groan. He strained to hear any movement, and after deciding it was safe, he pulled on the door again, but this time moved at a glacial pace. When he finally eked open a large enough crack to pass through, he crept out into the carpeted hallway, then down the stairs.
It wasn’t only that he didn’t want to wake anyone. It felt clandestine—to be out and about this late. As if there were a curfew on the island and he was breaking it.
Once outside, he crossed the dark one-lane road that ran in front of the bed-and-breakfast and stepped onto the grass on the other side of it, walking up to the edge where the water kissed the land. As he stood there, in his plaid pajama pants and a worn T-shirt emblazoned with the logo of his college newspaper, staring at the glittering water and inhaling the briny air tempered with the scent of earthy grass, he tried to clear his mind but found it impossible.
A breeze came off the water, tugging at him, and Anders tore himself away from the view and followed it, thinking a walk might be just what he needed to help him sleep.
The bright moon and stars the only things lighting his path, Anders meandered up the one-lane road to the main street of town. If he thought Frick Island was desolate during the day, it was nothing compared to the dead of night. It was a strange feeling, to be so fully alone, every storefront, every house he passed dark and locked up tight.
Or was he? A movement up ahead in the dark caught his eye. He stilled, trying to focus. It was a figure, a person wearing dark clothing, but Anders couldn’t make out much more than that. Out of curiosity—and without making a conscious decision to do so—Anders began walking in the same direction the person went, toward the marina. As he closed the gap, he squinted, trying to make out a face, but it was too dark, and the person’s head was obscured beneath a ball cap. Anders paused when he reached the broken-down Chevy in front of the One-Eyed Crab, and thought about calling out, making his presence known, so if the person turned around, Anders wouldn’t appear creepy in his lurking. But something about the way the man—at least he thought it was a man—was walking, furtively, with nervous glances to his right and left, kept Anders silent. And made the hair on his arms stand on end.
Anders stood still, watching as the figure quietly approached the boat on planks. Tom’s boat. The man swiveled his head, looking around once more, causing Anders to quickly duck farther into the shadows of the restaurant.