The Shadow Box(98)

I leaned into him, letting him hold me, my heart pounding as I tried to make sense of what I had believed when I saw those books and what I felt now.

“What was that email about?” he asked, holding me at arm’s length. “What did you think I was part of?”

“I saw your books at Ravenscrag,” I said.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a house. Owned by Maxwell Coffin.”

He squinted his blue eyes tight, as if trying to remember the name. When he opened them, I saw his big smile and the burst of sun lines around his eyes. “Evans’s husband,” he said.

“You know Evans?”

“Yes,” he said. “She’s a great environmentalist. Came to one of my lectures and gave me a big donation to help fund that last expedition to the Bering Sea.”

“Then why did you sign the books to Max instead of her?” I asked.

“Because he’s a die-hard industrialist who’d like to develop every protected place on the planet. She thought that if I signed the books in a positive way, he might have a change of heart.”

“I’m guessing that’s not likely,” I said.

“I wasn’t holding my breath,” he said. “Come on, let me drive you to the hospital.” He touched my neck, the raw spot where the rope had chafed and burned, and then he leaned forward to kiss it.

Conor heard what Nate had said, and he nodded.

“I’ll check in with you a little later,” he said. “I’ll get your statement then.”

“Thank you,” I said. Officer Peggy McCabe had handcuffed Emily Coffin and Alexander Chase; other officers had cuffed Ford, Wade, and Leonora.

Conor opened the back door of his Ford police car, letting Gwen and Charlie climb inside, then buckling the seat belts around the kids. I watched them drive away from Catamount Bluff.

I looked at Nate. “We’re stuck here,” I said.

“No, we’re not,” he said.

“It’s a long walk out of Catamount Bluff.”

“I thought we’d go by boat,” he said. “It’s a beautiful day.”

I loved that idea. We held hands, my ex-husband and I, and walked through afternoon shadows past the house and barn and studio, across the lawn. Halfway to the weather-beaten beach stairs, I stopped still, listening.

“Did you hear that?” I asked. I swore I heard the big cat cry, way off in the distance.

Nate looked at me with an expression in his eyes that might have been skepticism. But his smile grew wide, letting me know it was wonder.

“I did,” he said.

“I didn’t imagine it?” I asked.

“Nope,” he said. “You’ve got a mountain lion in those woods.”

“I always knew it,” I said. And I whispered, “Thank you, I love you forever.”

Whether to the cat or my father or the ghost of Ellen Fielding, I wasn’t sure, but I knew that the kids and I were safe, that Griffin and the others had been arrested, and I could hear the music of the sea, of the beach, of the woods that had saved my life.

And when Nate squeezed my hand and said to me, “I heard that,” I realized he might have thought that I’d been whispering to him. And that was fine with me. Because in the deepest way possible and every way that counted, it was true.





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am so grateful to Liz Pearsons, my amazing editor at Thomas & Mercer. Much gratitude to Charlotte Herscher, my developmental editor, Shasti O’Leary Soudant, my cover designer, and my entire T&M team, including Sarah Shaw, Laura Barrett, Alicia Lea, Susan Stokes, Brittany Russell, and Lindsey Bragg. And epic thanks to Gracie Doyle.

Boundless gratitude to my agent and close friend, Andrea Cirillo. A big thank-you to everyone at the Jane Rotrosen Agency: Jane Berkey, Meg Ruley, Chris Prestia, Annelise Robey, Christina Hogrebe, Rebecca Scherer, Amy Tannenbaum, Jessica Errera, Kathy Schneider, Sabrina Prestia, Hannah Rody-Wright, Julianne Tinari, Donald Cleary, Michael Conroy, Ellen Tischler, Hannah Strouth, and of course, the legend himself, Don Cleary.

Many thanks to my dear friend and film agent, Ron Bernstein.

Cynthia McFadden is a brilliant journalist. When I wrote about abuse of people and abuse of power in this novel, I thought of how Cynthia goes after the story and brings the truth to light. I’m thankful for her inspiring work.

I am thankful to Colette Harron for her wonderful heart. And she knows all the magical houses . . .

Andrew Griswold, director of EcoTravel for the Connecticut Audubon Society, is a great friend and one of the best birders and naturalists I know. Although it is claimed that Connecticut’s last mountain lions went extinct in the late 1800s, there have been many reported sightings since then; in 2011, one was killed by a car on the Wilbur Cross Parkway. I thank Andy for discussing my fictional cat’s habitat with me.

My thanks to Teri Lewis for her countless kindnesses as a friend and assistant and for her sweetness to the cats when I can’t be with them.

I am grateful to Sergeant Robert Derry of the Connecticut State Police for his stories and accounts of law enforcement on the highways and byways of Connecticut.

Thank you to my exuberant and creative social media manager, Patrick Carson.

Lifelong thanks to William Twigg Crawford for keeping an eye on the sky and always letting me know the wind speed at Ledge Light.