Anders remembered how bewildered he was by the hammer, and the fact of the person wielding it being drunk made a lot more sense.
“So much for this being a dry island,” Anders deadpanned.
“Do as we say, not as we do,” Jeffrey quipped. Then he rubbed his palms over his jean-clad thighs and stood. “I should get going. See you next weekend?”
Anders bristled, Piper’s words ringing in his ears. “I don’t think you will, actually.”
Jeffrey just nodded and then walked off. A few paces in, he stopped. “You know what I saw on that boat right before I set it on fire?”
“What?”
He paused, looking at Anders purposefully. “A life jacket.”
Anders furrowed his brow, trying to understand what Jeffrey was implying, what he’d said about Tom’s depression. And then he remembered the words of the waterman from the restaurant: It wuddn’t no accident. And finally, he understood. “Maybe he didn’t have time to grab it.”
“Maybe,” Jeffrey said slowly. “Or maybe he just didn’t want to.”
Anders watched as Jeffrey loped off and then gave his head a shake. What in the hell was wrong with the people in this town? There were more buried secrets on this island than on a sunken treasure ship, and Anders was tired of uncovering them.
* * *
—
For the rest of the week, Anders continued to try to lie to himself that he was glad to be done with Frick Island, by trying very hard not to think about the place. Or Piper. Which meant that he constantly thought about the island. And Piper. And while he was thinking about the island and Piper, he robotically performed the motions of his life. He went to work, wrote his articles, and ate tasteless microwaved dinners at his folding table before going to bed on his sad floor mattress, alone and miserable. He largely ignored the podcast, and all the emails and messages he was still receiving, except to apologize to Greta for not giving her a heads-up about it.
When he woke up on Saturday, the day stretching ahead of him empty and unscheduled for the first time in months, he lied to himself again, telling himself this was a good thing, that Frick Island had taken over his life. And now he could do more important things. Like . . . (and this was where his mind went blank for a few minutes). Oh! He could get a dog. Or start working out! Maybe he’d ask Hector what gym he went to. But the thought of having to sit through another diatribe on the merits of protein powders again deterred him from that path instantly. He rolled over on his mattress and clicked the television on, trying not to think of Piper, which was really all he could think about. He missed her. And the idea of never seeing her again squeezed his heart so tight, he thought he might literally be having a heart attack. Panicked, he sat up and scrolled through his phone until he found a list of symptoms on WebMD and then spent the next hour hyperfocused on his left arm and chin, trying to decide if it was tingling or if he was short of breath because he thought he might be having a heart attack or because he was actually having a heart attack.
Fortunately, his phone rang, giving him a short reprieve from his spiraling.
“Hey, Kelsey,” he said in a slightly irritated voice, not having fully forgiven her for his podcast exploding, even though at one point that was all he ever wanted, and it wasn’t technically her fault.
She didn’t respond, and at first he thought they had a bad connection. He pulled the phone away from his ear to check the bars. When he saw they were full, he put the phone back to his ear.
“Kels?”
He heard a squeak and then a ragged sob. “You have to come,” she said, in a voice so distorted it was almost unrecognizable. “It’s Dad.”
And from the fear and pain and love pulsing through the line, Anders didn’t have to ask which one. And his chest constricted all over again.
Chapter 27
The Hartsfield-Jackson airport in Atlanta was not only one of the busiest airports in the world but also had the distinct honor of having the longest span from the last terminal (E) to the first (A)—a little over two miles. An underground train quickly transported passengers between them, but naturally, the night Anders flew in, his plane docked at terminal E—and the train was out of commission. So Anders ran two miles carrying a duffel bag in one hand and his phone in the other, waiting for an update from Kelsey on their stepdad, who was currently in surgery after suffering a stroke.
He took a Lyft to Northside Hospital, and as soon as the car pulled into the parking lot, Anders bolted and didn’t stop running until he found his mom and sister in the waiting room of the ER.
After embracing both of them, he sat down, still slightly out of breath. “Is there an update?”
His mom shook her head, her face wan.
“What happened exactly?” Kelsey had been so distraught, he couldn’t understand half of what she had been saying on the phone.
“I don’t know,” his mom said, her eyes watery. “One minute he was eating a turkey sandwich and telling me about the new idea he had to keep squirrels out of the bird feeder. Then his words started running together like he’d had three scotches in a row, when he hadn’t had a drop to drink! Next thing I know he was slumped over in the chair and his sandwich was on the floor. It was terrifying.”
Anders couldn’t even imagine how scary that must have been.
“Then the paramedics showed up and we followed the ambulance here. We just ran out of the house. I don’t even have my purse.”
“I called 911 when I heard Mom scream,” Kelsey interjected.
“They took him back for a CT scan, said it was an ischemic, whatever that means, and then wheeled him into the OR to unblock the blood vessel or something or other. Kelsey’s been researching it on her phone.”
“Did they say how long he’ll be in surgery?”
“About two hours, so not much longer.”
“OK.” Anders nodded, even though all of this information did not give him the only piece they were all looking for—whether his stepdad was going to be alright. “Do you want me to go get your purse?”
“Would you? And maybe Dad’s flannel pajamas, too. He’s going to hate that flimsy gown.”
“Of course,” Anders said, grateful to be of use and have a task to focus his mind. “Text me if you think of anything else.”
* * *
* * *
—
The house was dark when Anders walked in the front door. And quiet. Too quiet.
He flipped light switches as he moved from room to room and then he padded up the stairs and poked his head in his old bedroom. His mom had always threatened to turn it into her craft room or a home gym the second he left for school, but it looked exactly the same. His eyes roamed the walls from the framed world map over his bed to the four movie posters tacked up in a row (All the President’s Men, Superman, The Paper, Spotlight) to the Chicago White Sox flag his dad had sent him one year, even though Anders didn’t even like baseball.