Every Vow You Break(75)

She repeated the information to the woman on the other end of the line, then answered more questions, the dispatcher assuring her that a patrol car was on its way. After Abigail ended the call, the man said, “You kayaked here from Heart Pond Island?”

“Uh-huh. You know it?”

“I did some work out there a few years ago. I’m an electrician.”

“For Chip Ramsay?”

“I don’t remember. Maybe. What happened to you?”

“Bad marriage,” she said, then laughed, realizing that she sounded a little hysterical.

“Can I put my arms down now?”

“What’s your name?”

“James Pelletier.”

“Go ahead and put your hands on your knees. I don’t really trust you yet, James.”

He lowered his hands slowly and placed them on his knees.

Abigail, without thinking, lowered herself to the damp sand, but kept the rifle pointed in the man’s general direction. “Where will the police car come from?” she said.

“The road’s right behind that line of trees. There’s a little dirt parking lot. We’ll see it coming.”

Sitting down had been a mistake. Abigail could feel the exhaustion flooding through her limbs, and she wondered for a moment if she’d be able to stand up again.

“I really thought you were going to shoot me,” James said, shaking his head.

She looked at him, still waiting for his hand to move swiftly into the pocket of his hoodie, whip out a gun, and put a bullet through her head. She didn’t think it was going to happen, but why wouldn’t it?

“Ever heard of a green man?” she said.

“A green man?”

“Yeah, what does it mean to you?” She studied him, and suddenly he looked fearful again.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“What about Silvanus? That mean anything?”

He shook his head.

Flashing lights suddenly penetrated the hazy gray of dawn, and Abigail could make out the cruiser pulling into the parking lot.

James turned his head.

Holding on to the rifle, Abigail planted a hand by her side to push herself upright again, and she felt something embedded in the sand under her palm. Cold metal. She picked at it with her fingers, realized it was a ring, and glanced down at it. Holding it up for him to see, she said, “Your wife’s ring.”

“Ha,” James Pelletier said, smiling.

For the first time in a long time, she thought she might actually live.



She was shaking uncontrollably in the interrogation room when they wrapped her in a blanket and told her to wait for one minute.

There had been a brief discussion when she’d been brought in through the reception area over whether she should go directly to the hospital, but Abigail was able to convince the desk sergeant that she was fine, and that she wanted to report a murder, that she’d go to a hospital right after she filed her report. It was clear they thought that she was on drugs, at least that the patrol officer who drove her from the shore to the police station thought so. He asked her several times what substances she’d taken in the previous twenty-four hours. He’d asked in a purposefully calm voice that had made Abigail want to scream at him.

When at last a plainclothes policeman came into the interrogation room, he held two cups of coffee and handed one to her. He was wearing a blue suit and a maroon tie, and when he sat down his stomach pushed out against his button-up shirt so that Abigail could see the T-shirt he wore underneath. He introduced himself as Detective Mando, then indicated a camera in the corner of the room and told Abigail that she was being recorded.

“There’s been a murder on Heart Pond Island,” Abigail said. “Jill Greenly was murdered by her husband two nights ago.”

“Okay,” he said, flipping open his notebook. “What’s your name, ma’am? Your full name, please.”

“It’s Abigail Elliot Baskin. I married Bruce Lamb last week and he brought me to Heart Pond Island for my honeymoon. He’s dead, too.”

“You’re going to have to slow down. Tell me how you wound up out at Hannaford Point.”

“I kayaked from the island.”

He nodded, and she watched him write the words Heart Pond Island, Abigail Baskin, then Bruce Lamb.

“Are you sending someone there?” she said. “They’re probably covering it up right now.”

“Officers are on the way already,” he said. “Don’t worry.

Whatever happened to you, we’re going to sort it, okay? In the meantime, I need you to tell me exactly what happened.”

Unable to stop herself, Abigail brought her hand up and pressed a finger and a thumb against her eyelids. She cried solidly for about two minutes while Detective Mando waited. There was nothing she could do to stop it from coming out of her. She’d been wound so tight for so long and now everything was unspooling, her body out of her control.

When she eventually stopped crying, he pushed a box of tissues across the table toward her and said, “Okay. Let’s start at the beginning.”





EPILOGUE

Abigail received the email on Friday afternoon, but didn’t open it until Sunday, after she’d brought her laptop onto her back patio. It was a beautiful late April morning, one of those rare warm spring days in Massachusetts. All the remnants of that winter’s numerous snowstorms were gone, and crocuses and daffodils had just started to appear. The email was from the wedding photographer.