Some eighteen hundred of them rose up from the water, many crowned with homes that dated back to the nineteenth century, when well-to-do gentlemen from cities like New York and Philadelphia traveled north by train to erect these grand weekend estates. In summer, the St. Lawrence hummed with boat traffic, and flags bearing the heritage of the islands’ owners cracked in the breeze. Now, all was abandoned to winter. Aside from my own, there wasn’t another beating heart for miles.
It was true that being out there in the open wasn’t without its risks. The closest thing I could compare it to was immersion therapy; I feared the exposure yet craved the pain of seeing Bram again, the exquisite relief of finally confronting my most intimate fear. And so, turning into the November wind, I welcomed him with arms spread wide. Come on, asshole. Here I am.
It was late afternoon by the time I got back to Mac’s, which meant it was dark as a grave. A sickle moon lolled in the sky, and as I walked from the car to the house, flakes of hard, dry snow bobbed in the air around me.
Mac had given me a key the same day she invited me to stay, and we’d joked about the enormity of this next step in our relationship. Now, I was happy to have it. McIntyre was visiting family up near Chippewa Bay tonight and wouldn’t be home until late, so when I opened the door, it was me on the receiving end of her Maltipoo’s unbridled euphoria. He exploded from his dog bed with a flurry of high-pitched barks and launched himself against my shins. “Hey there, Whiskey,” I said as I scooped him up and latched the door behind me. Mac had left the heat on low, and the house was positively frigid. I gave the tiny dog—named not for the spirit, but one of the islands—a cuddle before dropping my bag and heading for the fireplace. Twenty minutes later, I was curled up on the sofa with a bowl of microwave mac and cheese, a glass of Cabernet, and a ball of fur in my lap.
The fire cast the room in a warm, golden glow. If every Saturday night panned out like this one, that would be okay by me. Somewhere in the village, Carson was partying. Right about now, he’d be charming some random girl with his carefully crafted story about a local boy who made it big as a police psychologist in the city before returning to the hometown he loved. He’d bring her back to the apartment we’d shared for two months and twenty-six days, just as if I had never existed. Word around town was that Carson was looking to buy a small island; Sam’s sister was an agent at the local realtor’s office, and she couldn’t keep quiet about the exciting potential deal. So much for Carson saving up until his private practice was established. I was familiar with his real estate fantasy, and could easily imagine him tearing down a historic home to make way for some modern monstrosity. Maybe the girl he’d bed tonight would become the dutiful wife he needed to complete his storybook life. For her sake, I hoped she wouldn’t. Carson’s thirst for control was a long way from being slaked.
I’d just finished refilling my wineglass when the happy crackle of the fire was joined by the insistent droning of a mobile device. I hadn’t looked at my phone in hours—one of the perks of being on leave—so it took me a second to remember I’d stored it in my gym bag. After rifling through my stuff, I found it buried in the folds of my gi pants. Glanced at the caller ID, and answered with a smile.
“Hi, Mom, what’s up?” With the phone cradled against my ear, I crouched down to refold my uniform. The military-caliber New York State Police training I’d received at the police academy had stayed with me throughout the years. I no longer rose at 4:30 a.m. and went to bed at 10:00 p.m., but I’d sooner die than toss my laundry onto the floor.
“Shana.” My mother exhaled as she said my name, almost as if she’d been holding her breath. “I’m glad I caught you. Do you have a minute to talk?”
There was something odd going on with her voice, a mien of formality typically reserved for when she delivered bad news. I leaned back on my haunches. “Everything okay?”
She must have picked up on my alarm, because when she spoke again her voice had returned to normal. “It’s fine, we’re all fine, nothing to worry about. You weren’t worried, were you? Your father told me not to bother you with this, but—she’s fine, Wally, for Pete’s sake!” In the background I could hear my dad running a one-sided debate. He said something that sounded suspiciously like The kid has enough on her mind. As they bickered, I folded the rest of the clothing in my bag, but when I grabbed the T-shirt I’d worn to class, something slipped free and shot across the hardwood. Puzzled, I picked it up and turned it over in my hand. It was a playing card, the Three of Hearts. The reverse was emblazoned with a photograph of Heart Island, where Boldt Castle, built by the island’s original owner, rose fairytale-like above the trees. I was sure the cards Mac and I had played with that morning were the standard Bicycle brand, but then, the deck we’d borrowed was from the bistro’s game cupboard. This must have been a stray. How it got into my stuff, I had no idea.
“Listen,” Mom said. “Something happened today. You know the Missisquoi Wildlife Refuge? That swampland over on Hog Island?”
“Sure.” I stuffed the card back in my bag and resumed my position next to Whiskey. Della Merchant knew all there was to know about Swanton and made a point of checking in on the local rumor mill. I guessed her story was headed toward an affair. A roll in the marsh, as it were.
“I’ve got it on good authority the police found something out there. Human bones,” she said.
I swallowed my mouthful of wine so fast my nostrils burned. “Seriously?”
“Now, Shay, before you—”
“Have they been ID’d? What’s the cause of death? Were they—”
“Slow down. All I know is the police are investigating and don’t have much to go on. They got an anonymous tip a few days ago, which is what led them to the area. Now, you tell me why a person who finds something like this can’t be decent enough to leave their name?”
My mind whirred as I tried to imagine this news spreading throughout my hometown. Every mouth, set in a face bewitched by horror and bilious glee, would repeat this gossip tonight and wonder who, why, how. “I suppose they could have stumbled upon the site and been too freaked out to divulge their identity. You say the tip came in a few days ago? That takes us to midweek. Lots of people hike the refuge, even this time of year. It’s got all those trails, and you can get there by canoe or kayak, either on the Missisquoi River or Lake Champlain. Could be an out-of-towner got turned around and injured. Those woods are pretty wild. Odds are good there’s nothing nefarious going on—but keep me posted,” I said, kneading the fur behind Whiskey’s ears. The little dog groaned in ecstasy. “I bet Swanton hasn’t seen this much excitement since Mickey Bellington painted his house black.”
Mom laughed. “Will do. Mary Jo at the salon—she’s the one who trims your father—has a brother who’s with the police. He hears things at the station. And you know how people talk.”