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  For my mother, Peg Hamilton, with love and gratitude.

  I shut my eyes in order to see.

  —PAUL GAUGUIN

  1

  In the hours before dawn, she slips out of the house and runs. She knows the way by heart, even though she’s only ten, and the land swells around her like the mother’s bosom she never knew.

  She follows the path that winds near the cliff, the edge nipping at her feet, threatening to swallow her whole. Spit her out on the rocky shore below.

  She left the men sleeping.

  Xavier passed out on the couch, but Leo roamed the house all night, as though he knew she might leave. Even stood over her bed once while she pretended to sleep, her back to him, his shadow on the wall looming through her half-lidded eyes.

  When she finally heard his breathing, slow and deep from the other room, she left. Silently and swiftly, even though the night was soundless and black. She was good at that. Disappearing in the cracks between light and sound.

  The wind licks her ankles. Spray from the water below clings to her hair, coats her legs and arms in the icy Atlantic.

  She pauses on the cliff above the ocean. Her foot tingles, ready to step. But the night grips her body, presses against her until she’s flattened, as though she’s a leaf pressed between pages, the darkness sandwiching her in place.

  She thought it would be easy.

  Simple even. To step into nothing. To sail off the earth just like her parents had done, the wind taking her breath, filling the emptiness inside her body.

  But Ichabod Island won’t let her.

  When her toes touch the edge of the granite rock, the island stirs. The trees bend. The wind howls and the ocean roars and the lighthouse glares until she turns and runs, her feet pounding the dirt path through the woods.

  When the sun finds her later in a wooden house high in the trees, safely away from the cliff, sound asleep on a bed of feathers, she doesn’t stir. She doesn’t feel the day rise above her. The cloudless sky peering down with its bright yellow eye.

  She sleeps soundly. On her own. Just like she should be. Just like she came into the world.

  Nobody knows she’s gone. The men don’t know she ran away. When they find out, they’ll ask why. Over and over, they’ll ask why.

  She won’t have an answer. She never does.

  She’s not even sure there is one.

  2

  Across the street, Maggie Thompson is in bed alone, wondering when it was exactly that her husband fell out of love with her.

  The day had started promising.

  They’d gone to their first visit with a new marriage counselor; a thin, well-groomed man who ended the session by encouraging them to be more spontaneous.

  Mix it up, he’d said, and be nice to each other.

  On the ride home, Pete mimicked the counselor: the way he twiddled his fingers when he told them to mix it up, as though he were casting a spell. Maggie had giggled, a bubbling, young sound that made Pete laugh.

  He reached over with his right hand and laced his fingers between hers.

  Maggie didn’t know the last time they’d done something like that—touched for touching’s sake. Not the perfunctory, almost scripted caresses before they made love or the quick, tight-lipped kisses that followed each hello or goodbye, but a touch that carved a small spot in her memory.

  The sort of touch that could nearly be felt again.

  When Pete had come up behind her in the bedroom and whispered that they should follow the doctor’s orders and be spontaneous, she agreed, because the warmth of his fingers still lingered on her own.

  They undressed quickly, without pulling the shades, and climbed into bed, even though it was late morning. Since Maggie couldn’t remember the last time they’d done that either, she considered this to be the spontaneous part.

  After the usual foreplay and well into their missionary lovemaking, Pete whispered in her ear in a throaty voice, “Do you like that, you dirty slut?”

  Maggie couldn’t help the snort that shot out of her.

  “Jesus,” Pete said, pushing his weight up on his hands and frowning at her. “That was sexy.”

  She took her hand off his back and pressed it to her nose.

  “Sorry,” she said through her fingers.

  She put her hand on Pete’s back again and gave him a little tap to indicate that it was fine—that he should keep going—even though she could feel inside of her that it was not fine, and he was not going to keep going.

  Pete rolled off her and lay on his back, his eyes on the ceiling.

  Maggie sat up and leaned on her arm, turned her head to look down at him, trying not to wonder how her naked fifty-year-old body looked in the bright daylight.

  “It surprised me.” She rested her hand on the slight paunch of his belly. “Let’s start again.”

  “Explain that to him.” He pointed to his penis, which lay flaccid and forlorn on his thigh.

  Maggie leaned down and wrapped her hand around the length of him, holding it like a microphone.

  “Will the master of ceremonies please rise for the occasion and accept the apologies of the attendee? No offense was intended,” she said in a formal voice.

  She looked at Pete, waited for him to laugh, but he brushed her hand away and flipped the edge of the comforter over his midsection.

  Maggie felt the heat rise up her neck. She had done it to be playful—to make up for her reaction—but in twenty-seven years of marriage, Pete had never talked dirty to her in bed.

  Not like that, at least.

  That feels good was his go-to line. Occasionally, if he drank too much, he’d whisper in her ear that she had a great ass, but in Maggie’s mind that didn’t exactly qualify as dirty talk.

  “I didn’t mean to laugh. Come on. Let’s start again—”

  “Can we not talk about it?” he said.

  He stood up suddenly, pulled on his boxers, then his pants. Maggie tugged on both sides of the comforter, wrapping it around her body and tucking it under her arms like a towel.

  “I didn’t realize we started talking about it.”

  “Dr. Quack said to mix it up, so that’s what I did. You want more sex and spice. Right? That’s what you said. Just like that.” He crisscrossed the room, looking for his shoe.

  “I said passion, Pete. That I miss having passion in my life.”

  He found the shoe under Maggie’s shirt on the floor and sat on the edge of the bed to put it on.

  “Ah, yes, passion,” he mumbled in a voice she was sure he meant her to hear.

  “We agreed to see him to help us communicate better.”

  “Well, that was my impression. But come to find out—it’s not just communicating that’s the problem. It’s my lack of passion in bed.”

  “I never said anything about us in bed. Why did you agree to go if you were going to use it against me later?”

  Pete looked at her, shook his head, and disappeared into the closet. She sat in the middle of the bed, remembering that he hadn’t really agreed to go at all.

  More gave in to her nagging, it seemed.

  They’d already gone to a different counselor last year. Right after Maggie had found the texts on Pete’s phone. Text after text from his secretary.

  None of them
about work.

  They made it two months in couples therapy before Pete refused to go back. He was tired of talking about it. Tired of explaining that it just happened—he never meant for it to go that far. Of course he hadn’t slept with her—he hadn’t even kissed her!

  He apologized. Over and over, he apologized. Finally, she said she forgave him. They stopped going to therapy.

  Everything went back to normal.

  Except Maggie woke up every day with a weight on her chest. She went to the doctor. Tried antidepressants. Added in another day of yoga. She took baths and went for long walks. Still—she was joyless.

  Passionless.

  That’s how they ended up with this new therapist. She’d begged Pete to come with her, said it wasn’t about their marriage—she just wanted to see if they could communicate better.

  She’d seen the look on Pete’s face in the therapist’s office after she said she wanted more passion in their life. It reminded her of the look the boys used to give her as teenagers whenever Maggie tried to show them affection in public—a mixture of shame and embarrassment. Maybe even a touch of anger.

  She heard his voice again. Do you like that, you dirty slut?

  Replaying it in her head now, she caught the edge in his voice. The blame.

  Pete emerged from the closet. She watched him button his shirt, eyeing the patch above the breast pocket. He never talked about his job, even though he knew all the town secrets, working his way up from a patrolman to, now, chief of police.

  The job stays at the job was his favorite line. She stopped asking long ago after what seemed like the millionth go-around of Pete dodging her questions about what happened on his shift.

  “Who am I going to tell?” Maggie asked while they sat at the dinner table when the boys were little and she was craving adult conversation.

  “The Russians,” Pete said, with a smirk.

  “I’m your wife.”

  “That’s how the Russians work. They go through the women.”

  “What if you talked in your sleep? What then?”

  “I’d have to kill you,” he said, flicking his eyebrows.

  It was funny at first, then it wasn’t so funny, and finally, she stopped asking.

  Pete leaned over and planted a kiss on the top of her head and said he had to go to the station. Maggie followed his eyes, watched the way they would not meet her own. She wanted to ask him if he’d heard the last part of the counselor’s advice—the part about being nice to each other. But he was gone before she could gather her words, his footsteps echoing heavy and quick through the house and out the door.

  Almost as if he were running from her.

  Now, she’s in bed. Naked. She’s staring at the ceiling when the phone rings and the person on the other end tells her that Sky is missing.

  That she left sometime after midnight, as far as anyone can tell.

  “You mean gone,” she says, knowing it’s just a matter of time. How many hours can a child linger in the forest, high in a tree house, before hunger strikes and her empty stomach sends her home?

  She hangs up the phone and gets dressed, walks down to the kitchen just as the clock strikes noon.

  When she turns to the back door, two blue eyes look back at her. And she has her answer.

  Apparently, only twelve.

  3

  It’s Xavier who discovers she’s gone.

  Leo is half awake, the sun peeking through the shade, when he appears in the doorway, leans against the frame. He doesn’t need to say it. Disappointment is etched in his forehead.

  “Not again,” Leo sighs, sitting up.

  “You had night duty—”

  “I checked on her. She was sound asleep when I went to bed.” Leo kicks off the covers and stands up, rummages through his suitcase for a clean pair of shorts.

  This is how they’ve been living the past two months.

  Out of suitcases Xavier replenishes when he returns from the city each weekend. Leo’s existence in this house is one dress shirt, his favorite khakis, three pairs of shorts, four T-shirts, old sneakers, even older loafers, underwear, and his toiletry bag.

  And his laptop, of course. According to Xavier, Leo’s only connection to civilized life.

  “So much for Saturday mornings in bed. Remember those days?” Xavier asks.

  Leo picks up a T-shirt, gives it a sniff before he pulls it on. He ignores the comment.

  Of course he remembers their Saturday routine. They’ve been married a year. Together two before that.

  What his husband is really asking is: Do you remember I didn’t agree to this?

  Do you remember only your name is in the will?

  “I called the police. Chief Brody’s on it,” Xavier tells him.

  “Who?”

  “Oh, come on. Jaws? The island police chief.”

  “Jaws was filmed on the Vineyard. Get your islands straight. Why did you call the police? She’s probably where she always ends up.”

  “I called the police because this needs to stop. We’re not getting through to her. As far as getting my islands straight—you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all. I mean, we’re out of coffee and not a Starbucks to be found.”

  Leo doesn’t respond. He’s heard it all by now—he’s been hearing it for two months. Ever since Brian and Ann were killed in a car accident and Leo moved back over to the island to take care of Sky, their ten-year-old daughter.

  Leo’s ten-year-old daughter, according to the will that named him as her guardian.

  “I’m going to the treehouse, then to Maggie’s,” he says. “Stay here in case she comes home.” He walks past Xavier, kisses him on the cheek. “Good morning, by the way.”

  Xavier doesn’t smile. Just looks at him with tired eyes. “How long are we going to do this?” he asks.

  Leo knows his answer isn’t the one Xavier wants to hear, so he just shrugs and walks away.

  As long as it takes, he thinks to himself.

  As long as it takes.

  * * *

  Ichabod Island is nothing more than a slice of land thirteen miles off the coast of New England, referred to by year-round residents as simply Ichabod.

  Some say it sits in the shadow of the Vineyard like a disobedient child, wild and untamed, fog rolling over the land like a tantrum in wait.

  Shaped like an enormous lightning bolt, the island is a jagged zigzag of land rising out of the Atlantic.

  Which is why perhaps Leo always feels more alive when he’s here. As though the red-clay cliffs and white-sand beaches and cobblestone streets are electric in some way, igniting the air in his lungs and the blood in his veins.

  Now, he walks out of the house, blinks at the daylight. The dead-end street is narrow—they live where the land sharpens to a point high above the water.

  Not far from the town dock, Winding Way is anything but winding—it’s more of a slender, thumb-shaped cul-de-sac lined with a handful of small Cape Cod–style homes, one resembling the next.

  Leo grew up here. Four houses down from Brian.

  He still hasn’t gotten used to parking in Brian and Ann’s driveway, even though he’s been living in their house for two months. When he first arrived, he sometimes drove straight past their house and pulled into the driveway of his childhood home. A reflex. Maybe to be expected.

  But it was embarrassing—he’d reversed the car quickly, his face hot, hoping the tenant, Mrs. Pearse, hadn’t seen him.

  He’s taught himself to avoid his old home—avert his eyes, pretend it’s just another house on the street. He feels as though he’s abandoned it, turned his back on every single memory between those walls.

  His parents had always assumed Leo would live in the house after they died. Use it as a weekend getaway from his place in Boston. A summer home when he could get the time off from work. His parents had paid off the mortgage. They knew how much he loved the island.

  His mother got Alzheimer’s and spent her last days in the nursing home, but
his father took his last breath in his recliner in the living room, passing away quietly in his sleep at seventy-one after a series of strokes.

  In the weeks before his father died, Leo had moved in to take care of him. His father had talked incessantly about how he wanted Leo to turn the small house into something spectacular. Knock it down and start fresh, his father kept repeating.

  It was the last house on the street. The only house with a view of the water because of the way the trees sloped down the hill in the back of the property.

  An architect’s dream.

  Then there was the awful night after his father’s funeral. The night he got so drunk that he woke up next to a woman in his bed. The night that left him a stranger in his own home—no, a stranger in his own skin.

  He left Ichabod the next day, went home to his condo in the city, and hired a property manager, putting him in charge of cleaning out and renting his childhood home. A month later, a tenant moved in.

  Sweet, old Mrs. Pearse—spinster and the town historian. Even Agnes Coffin, who lived on the street, didn’t complain. And she complained about every outsider on Winding Way.

  Agnes Coffin acted as the island gatekeeper. Give her the opportunity and she’d raise a finger in the air to count her direct relation to the men who founded Ichabod Island. Proving to anyone within earshot that her right to this island was in her blood. She was only four wrinkled fingers away from the first settlers on Ichabod: My father’s (pointer), great-grandfather’s (middle), uncle’s (fourth), cousin (pinky), she would say, all smug and content.

  Like it was something she’d earned. As though she had more right to the island than a person who wasn’t a native. Someone born on the island.

  But Agnes Coffin couldn’t complain about his tenant—Mrs. Pearse was a descendant of Captain Ichabod Pearse—the island’s namesake.

  Now, Leo walks down the street to Maggie’s house, the smell of low tide at the base of the cliffs following him to the front door.

  He knocks, and Maggie calls for him to come in.

  He finds them at the kitchen table. Sky is halfway through a bowl of macaroni and cheese. She waves, looks down at her lunch.