The Last September: A Novel

What I had meant to tell Daniel was about the kayak, how it was missing, how someone had been up there very recently. How Eli would have ignored the pile of life jackets and pulled the kayak out to the water. It had been a clear day, better than any you’d see during the official summer, warm enough for short sleeves, the sun determined but muted by the barest amount of cloud cover and an even slighter autumn breeze. Hardly anyone walking on the beach to notice the man, paddling too far from shore, heading toward Provincetown, the curled tip of the flexing arm that made up this spit of land.

I meant to tell Daniel: How frightened Eli would have been after seeing Charlie killed. How a knowledge of himself as suspect—or simply the old resistance to hospitalization and the electric miscalculations in his brain—could have caused him to flee, paddling through the day and into the night, and stopping short of Provincetown, maybe in Wellfleet. I imagined him heading to the trails he used to love to bike. Not much of a place for hiding. Maybe he hiked out to Lieutenant Island at low tide, letting himself into someone’s summer home. Row after row of seasonal houses would offer changes of clothes, and beds, even food. He could hunker down, living on canned goods and bottled water, house to house, until one day he decided a walk was in order before it got too cold. Or else until he forgot the reason he’d run away in the first place, and paddled back, to find me.

“I know,” Daniel said.

Sarah dropped her head onto my shoulder. I swayed from my hips, moving her back and forth, feeling her dreamy gaze out toward sea, and knowing her eyelids were closing. I wasn’t sure how much I’d said aloud, how much I’d only thought.

“Ladd told me,” Daniel said. “I saw you that day, driving away. And I asked him about your visit. He was very upset, even before what happened to Charlie. He told me.”

My eyes stung. I nodded, wondering if Ladd had told him about Deirdre. And then I said, “I feel like I should tell the police.”

“I already did,” Daniel said. “And so did Ladd.”

“Ladd told them?”

“Yes, right away. That day . . .” He trailed off, looking at Sarah. Not wanting to say The day Charlie died. “They came to the house to interview him, and he told them everything.”

“But then, why didn’t they ask me about it?”

“Because,” Daniel said. He stepped in closer and reached out his hand. For a moment, I thought he was going to touch me, but instead he stroked the top of Sarah’s head, her breathing slowed to sleep. “Because you’re grieving. And you’re not a suspect. Neither is Ladd.”

I could hear Daniel’s voice, powerful man, in third person instead of second, instructing the police not to bother me with this detail, all the details, of Ladd and me. She’s grieving. What would he have said to keep them away from Ladd?

Daniel’s face looked so calm and sympathetic. Forgiving me. But I didn’t want to be forgiven. I wanted to know what happened to Charlie. If I told Daniel about the kayak, he would walk into the house and phone the police. One more piece of information, one more thing they knew to look for.

“Look,” Daniel said. “All the evidence, including your own eyewitness. It’s very clear. Who did this.”

“It’s not clear,” I said. “It’s not clear to me.” I thought about mentioning the other possibility, something Deirdre-related, but the thought of Daniel’s knowing about that, Charlie’s betrayal, was too awful.

He stood there, quietly, staring at me, feeling too badly for me to contradict what was obvious to him, what was obvious to everyone. Except me.

“So what happens,” I said, not wanting to argue any further, “when they catch him?”