Jude doesn’t look back as we travel up the cliff, but I do exactly that. I study the crimson stains in the sand, the small and crumpled form of Connor’s body. I’ve no idea what the police will do with him, but I know this is the last time I’ll be able to see him as he was. Only then do I turn away and follow in Jude’s footsteps to the lighthouse.
The rain and wind pick up, rendering conversation impossible. My violin case bumps against my leg, a small comfort, as I try not to let my mind wander back to the body we’ve left behind, to the Sheahan family, who’ll soon find out their youngest son was taken from them.
The stone path to the keeper’s cottage is cracked through, grass and moss softening the edges. We duck under the narrow overhang, and Jude takes a skeleton key from his coat pocket. The door is bright blue, but chipped in places, paint peeling back from the wood. I wonder when he last painted it. He fiddles with the lock, leaning upon the door before twisting the brass knob. We hurry over the threshold, and Jude swings the door closed, shutting out the force of the gale. My ears ring in the sudden silence.
He leads the way through the cottage, past a heavy oak door, and up the winding staircase to the watch room. Most of its small space is occupied by a desk covered in papers, journals, nautical instruments. A map of Twillengyle hangs from one wall, while another has a window overlooking the nearby harbor. There’s no bed, but the room looks lived in, like Jude has taken to sleeping at his desk.
He settles into the chair, shifts a stack of documents to reveal a metal instrument fitted with all sorts of dials and screws. Jude touches a hand to the paddle at one end, clicking it to produce a long series of dah sounds. Morse code, I realize belatedly.
In a moment his hand is still. “They’ll be on their way,” he says, looking out the window instead of at me.
“I suppose we need to wait for them?”
He turns back around, and I see something like relief in his expression. “Yes,” he says. “I’d like that—you staying here, that is. If you want.”
I smile as best I can. “Thank you.”
“I’ll make tea, shall I?” The way he says it, I can tell he’s grasping for some purchase on routine. I nod all the same, and together we go down into the kitchen.
CHAPTER THREE
I’VE BEEN IN THE OSRICS’ lighthouse many times in my life. I’d come with my father, eager for adventure, listening to tales of shipwrecks in the night. It was only after his death that my visits tapered off. To be back here now, as blood reddens the shoreline below, seems grimly fitting.
In the few years since, the place looks little different. Cracks run through the white walls from salt air and humidity. My father used to say that each crack in the lighthouse held a secret. There are even more cracks now, jagged and spreading like vines. I wonder how many more secrets are hiding in the dark. I wonder if my own are counted among them.
The kitchen is situated on the first floor of the cottage. It’s uncluttered and well kept, with a washstand near the window, an oil lamp lit at the table. I take a seat on one of the crooked chairs, setting my violin case on the tabletop. From here, the storm is a low rumble, the steady rain like a distant thread of music. Yet I find myself listing from the present moment like an unbalanced ship—and each time I drift, I’m back on the beach, standing over Connor’s body, watching the rain wash his blood into the sea.
Jude stands at the counter, filling the kettle and lighting the stove. He looks more disheveled without his coat and hat. He is a lean figure in the dim, his face tinged pink from the cold, exhaustion darkening his eyes. Since coming down from the watch room, he hasn’t said a word. Over the years, I’ve found Jude predisposed to such behavior. The death of both his parents made him grow up cautious. Though as the kettle boils, he offers me a small smile and says, “I’m afraid I don’t remember how you take your tea.”
I exhale slowly. “Just black, please.”
“Right.” He turns to the stove, only to look back a second later. “Moira—”
I interrupt. “I’m sorry you had to be the one to find him.”
Jude pauses, lips pressed thin. “Can’t be helped, I suppose.”
I rub my thumb over the newest scuff on my violin case and push back another image of Connor—smiling at our last lesson, pleased when I complimented him.
This island would eat you alive, if you let it.
Jude pours the kettle’s contents into a teapot, steam rising in gray coils before disappearing in the light. He tugs at the cuff of his sweater, staring out at the rain. “I saw you playing on the cliff earlier.”
I swallow. My mother’s words over the matter still shine slick as tar, coating my thoughts. Jude brings the teapot to the table and continues. “Is that why you haven’t been at the hall?”
I haven’t played at our local dance hall for two summers now. At the moment the only thing I’m missing is the pay, though my tutoring has done a fair job of shelling out coins to warm my palm. Stiffly I say, “I can play where I like.”
Sitting down across from me, Jude looks a touch uncomfortable. “Of course,” he says. “I meant no ill by it.”
I doubt Jude Osric would wish ill on even his worst enemy. I curl both hands around my steaming teacup and say, “I find it difficult to believe you’ve attended many dances in my absence.”
I mean to be lighthearted, but Jude says, “To quite a few I’ve been,” and sounds almost defensive.
I raise a brow. “I hope you’re not waiting on me. I hear Peter and Flint are managing rather poorly.”
He ducks his head to stare into his teacup. Silence settles between us, but there’s an edge to it, as though we are both skirting around the real topic at hand. Jude’s gaze soon returns to the window. Rain lashes the glass, dim light yellowing the sill.
“A bad one tonight,” he murmurs. “Storm to drown the sirens.”
It’s just a saying, an adage as old as the island, but the comment twists my stomach. Connor’s death isn’t all that’s left unsaid between us. Jude is likely too gracious to ask outright, but he must wonder why I’ve not visited the lighthouse these past four years, why I’ve ignored every invitation offered. Our interactions have narrowed to greeting each other in town, smiling at one another across the street. We are little more than strangers when we were once the best of friends, and I feel the ache of those lost years now, sitting in his company, as keenly as a missing limb. Jude, I realize, must be worse off. I know our separation is by design, but that design is my own doing. Or, perhaps, undoing. I’ve kept secrets from him, secrets I’m too cowardly to share, too self-serving to face directly. If he ever found out—
A knock sounds at the door. Jude flinches, sloshing tea onto the table. “That’ll be them,” he says, adding, “You needn’t accompany me,” when I move to get up.
I ignore this. Together we head for the entrance, and Jude unlocks the door, pulling it open to reveal two policemen on his doorstep. I recognize them both, though I can’t recall the taller one’s name. The pair have donned heavy tweed overcoats against the rain, their shoulder capes dark with damp. The shorter man, Inspector Dale, doffs his hat. “Afternoon, Mr. Osric,” he says. “Miss Alexander.”