Trespassing(90)

“The kiln?”

“There’s a kiln here, yes, which is weird enough on its own. But I tried to make a few pots, and this morning, when I opened the kiln, there was ash. And I found charred bundles of money under the kiln, so I’m scared now. What if I burned the money Micah stole from his father? Or what if he stashed it there to pay debts? I mean, he didn’t have a job, right? So where’d all the cash come from?”

“I’ll need what’s left. It might be traceable.”

“There’s not much, but I put it aside for you. And he’d been using his father’s social security number, at least to buy a house, right? All of this . . . it has to mean something. Why would he hide all this cash? Why would Bella say these things? That her father came back for her, that he’s taking her by the dolphins? It doesn’t make sense unless she’s seen him.”

Daddy said Nini goed there once.

“We need to find Nini,” I tell Guidry.

“You think your daughter’s imaginary friend has something to do with this.”

“Yes.”

He sighs and shakes his head in muted exasperation.

“I think Nini is a real little girl. I think Bella met her with her father at some point, and the only way she can make sense of this confusing situation is to bring the most relatable part—a little girl—with her wherever she goes. A few days after we first got here, she started talking about Connor and Brendan. Then you sent Laughlin over with birth certificates for Connor and Brendan. You need to find out if Gabrielle had a daughter. Even if she isn’t Micah’s daughter, Elizabella might have met her at some point. Or Natasha Markham. Does she have a little girl with red hair?”

“First”—Guidry shakes his head—“Natasha does have a little girl, so there’s a possible correlation there.”

“Have they been here? To this house?”

“From time to time, yes.”

I remember Micah’s mocking my concern over our daughter’s imaginary friend. And if he knew Natasha was spending time here and if he introduced Bella to Natasha’s daughter . . . Would he rather I fear I’m crazy—or that our daughter is—than explaining? But I wouldn’t have understood. How could he have told me he’d been seeing his ex-girlfriend?

“Second,” Guidry continues, “Gabrielle and her two sons—Micah’s sons—died in the plane crash off the coast of Florida.”

My fingers are numb.

“Seems they, too, spent time on this island from time to time.”

I think of the art supplies, the kiln, and my reluctance to believe Natasha might have had any occasion to use these items. But if Gabrielle was here, maybe she did use these things.

“Veronica?”

I snap out of it and meet Guidry’s gaze. “Who was flying the plane?”

“That’s a good question. Only three bodies were discovered. Could be the pilot parachuted out. Could be the pilot’s body is lost at sea.”

“Whose plane was it?”

“An even better question. The make and model match the one you sent pictures of, but we can’t trace the registration. There was no flight plan registered, so it seems the plane took off from private grounds. It appeared in the ocean out of nowhere.”

“They’re . . . Gabrielle and the children. They’re dead?”

“Yes.”

“And whoever claimed to be working with the federal government assumed my husband was with them when they died, and they notified me he was gone.”

“It’s possible. But it’s more likely they concocted the story of his death to see where you’d lead them.”

“It’s possible then that whoever they are, they want what he left behind.” An intense urge to hold my daughter, to never let her go, practically aches in my arms. “And if Micah’s been here, it’s a pretty good bet they know where to find us.”





Chapter 48

An intense urge to flee the island only subsides when I realize that if someone followed me from Chicago, it’s likely he’ll follow me wherever I go from here. Guidry brought my mail with him, courtesy of Claudette Winters, because he didn’t want to make known the address of Goddess Island Gardens even to her.

Guidry says he’s going to stay in the area for a while. He’s asked the Key West police force to double the patrols along Elizabeth Street. But other than that, it’s business as usual. He won’t say it, but he’s watching me like a hawk watches a squirrel. He’s waiting for me to screw up, or he’s waiting for someone to find me.

Among credit card statements and utility bills, none of which I have had the nerve to open, is correspondence from Natasha Markham. It’s a blank-inside card, a picture of a field of daisies on the front. Her message is simple, written in the instantly recognizable, no-nonsense block letters: I’M SORRY FOR WHAT YOU’RE GOING THROUGH.

WE SHOULD TALK.





—N


Her phone number appears at the bottom right corner of the card.

I dial.

It rings and rings.

She doesn’t answer.





Chapter 49

December 7

It’s a pattern these days: a lot of hype followed by a stretch of relative normality.