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"Andrew?" she called out. I looked back—she was just a shadow on the floor now, the chapel draped in gloaming. "Please talk to me."

I returned to Violet and sat down on the front pew.

"You afraid of me?" I asked.

"Yes."

"I want to tell you what happened to me."

"I want to know."

I suspected she was just trying to pacify me but I told her anyway. All of it. Even what had happened in the desert. I don’t know if she believed me but she listened, and by the end of my narrative my voice could scarcely sustain a whisper. When your sole verbal communication is infrequent chitchat with strangers, your voice atrophies from disuse.

But she listened. I didn’t ask if she believed me. I’m tempted to say it didn’t matter but that isn’t accurate. Rather, what mattered most was that the truth had been told by me to someone.

You cannot imagine the release.

43

VIOLET sat up now in my sleeping bag, propped against the railing that separated the pews from the altar. I’d managed to fire up the camping stove, a propane-fueled Whisper-Lite. It stood in the aisle, a pot of water coming to a boil over its hissing blue flame.

I ripped the tops off two pouches of Mountain Pantry lasagna and set the freeze-dried dinners beside the stove. Then I took the potgrab and lifted the lid. A billow of steam moistened my face. I set the lid down, lifted the pot, and poured the boiling water into each pouch.

After the lasagnas had stewed for ten minutes we dined. The church completely dark now, I found a candle in my first-aid kit, lit it, and placed it on the floor between us.

"Not bad, huh?" I said.

"It’s good."

The rain had let up. The wind was easing. A cloudy night on an island without electricity is pure darkness.

"How long you been a cop?" I asked.

"Year and a half."

I put the hot pouch down and took a drink of water from the Nalgene bottle.

"Back in the car you said you were pregnant."

A quick intake of breath. Stifling of tears. Violet looked at the floor while she spoke, her voice newly wrecked.

"Look, I can’t do the personal thing right now, okay? Unless you want me to just fall completely apart, please…"

I looked at her in the candlelight. Beautiful. Still a kid. Could’ve been a grad student somewhere. She wiped her cheeks on the sleeves of the fleece jacket. I wondered if she had any idea of how far over her head she was.

She finished off the lasagna, and reassuming that budding official tone, became the cop again: "You said we came to Ocracoke for the same reason. You mean Mr. Kite?"

"Yes. I came here to find him. That woman they found hanging from the Bodie Island Lighthouse—I knew her. And Beth Lancing, the Worthingtons’ neighbor who was kidnapped—she’s the wife of that very dear friend I was telling you about—Walter. I believe Luther murdered that family just to bring attention to Beth Lancing’s abduction. And he hanged Karen Prescott from the lighthouse for the same reason. Those murders were so public. He wanted me to find out. He knew I’d know it was him. That wasn’t a mindless killing spree. I think those murders were executed in such a way as to lead me to him, or his general vicinity. And that’s what’s scaring me right now. You see, my biggest fear is what if Luther knows I’m here?"

"What do you mean ‘here’? In this church?"

"No, Ocracoke. God help us if he knows we’re on this island."

"Andrew, why are we on this island?"

"Well now that you’re in my life, that’s an interesting question. You feel any better?"

"I’m warm now."

"And your poncho’s dry. I’ve got spare fleece pants and long underwear in my pack." I looked at my watch. "It’s a quarter past seven. Rain’s let up. Yeah, we should get on with it."

"With what?"

"I’m fairly confident Beth Lancing is somewhere on this island. Luther, too."

"Oh, no, Andrew, let law enforcement handle this. We could call them in—"

"What about me? I’m wanted."

"Of course I’d—"

"Of course what? You’d tell them how I’m really innocent and—"

"No, I wouldn’t do that. It wouldn’t matter what I—"

"Then what?"

"You’d have a day in court."

"A day in court. Think that