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'I hope you're wrong, but there's nothing we can do but wait and pray,' Delia told him with a sigh. She felt frustrated. Helpless. 'Maybe this time God will come through.'

'There is something we can do,' Troy insisted.

'What?'

'We can take matters into our own hands.'

Delia turned from the lake and stared at the boy, whose round face had a childish violence about it that she'd never seen in him before. Her heart pounded. 'What do you mean by that?'

Troy's eyes darted around the vacant parking lot again. 'All we need is one night where he's alone on the island. I have a buddy who works on the ferry. He'll let me know if Bradley's wife leaves. I can sail over there and take care of it myself. I'd just need an alibi, someone to say I was with them that night.'

Delia thought of all the things she should say to him. You're crazy. This is wrong. Don't ever bring this up again. She knew she had to cut this off now before it went too far. Before everything got out of control. She had to stop this boy before he made a terrible mistake.

The truth was that she didn't want to stop him.

'When you say you'll take care of it,' Delia murmured, 'exactly what do you plan to do?'

Troy opened his jacket and showed her. 'I have a gun,' he said.

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The downtown street past the White Gull Inn in Fish Creek ended at a beach overlooking the waters of Green Bay. Cab bought a sandwich of brie, sprouts, and focaccia bread and found a bench where he could watch the sun set. He'd finally bought a gray wool overcoat that was intended to reach to his ankles, but only draped as low as his knees. He was warm for the first time since he'd arrived.

The beach was nothing like the beaches he knew in Florida or Spain, where sun gods lay topless on towels beside water that was still and clear. Instead of flat sand, the wind created a dune of peaks and valleys. Jagged driftwood littered the shore. The water tussled with itself, and waves landed in angry slaps. The disappearing sun looked impotent here, and when it was gone entirely, there was nothing left but a long stretch of melancholy gray.

He felt his phone buzz as a text arrived. When he flipped it open, he saw that his mother had written to him from London, where it was past midnight. His dark mood brightened, thinking of her.

Hello, darling. In a taxi, thought of you, ha ha. When will I see you? We're overdue. Love, T. P.S. Beautiful place you're in, but does anyone live there?

Tarla always had a way of reading his mind. It was disorienting to imagine himself on one corner of the planet, in this solitary place, and to picture his mother across the ocean in the urban lights and noise of London. She was right. He felt as if no one at all lived here. The loneliness was crushing, maybe because the empty land reflected what he was feeling inside. He'd always assumed that seclusion like this was what he wanted, but he had begun to realize that it wasn't healthy. It spread like a virus. He missed his mother in London. He missed Lala in Florida. He wasn't as much of an island as he'd always believed.

'Hello, Detective.'

Cab looked over his shoulder in surprise and saw someone who did live here. Someone who claimed to thrive on the isolation that he wanted to escape.

'Mrs Bradley,' he said. He checked his watch. 'Shouldn't you be back home by now?'

'I missed the last ferry,' she told him. 'I have a friend with a rental cottage near here. She lets me stay there.'

'How did you find me?'

'I saw you driving through town. Your Corvette is hard to miss. Everyone already knows who you are.'

'So it seems.'

'Welcome to life in a small town.'

'I heard about your accident on the island,' Cab told her.

'It wasn't an accident.'

'I understand. I'm glad to see you're OK.'

'I hurt like hell. I'm staying in bed tomorrow.'

'Good for you. Are you hungry? Would you like half of a vegetarian sandwich?'

'Do I look like I eat girly food?' Hilary asked. 'You should come back when Stillwater's