The Last September: A Novel

There had not been a murder in Saturday Cove since 1980, when a summer resident killed his wife and two children, and then himself. It shook people up, of course, but the suicide let the police off the hook. It didn’t give them any practice. For such a long time, law enforcement only dealt with the occasional winter breakin, shoplifters, drunk drivers. There was no homicide department. To investigate Charlie’s murder, they borrowed detectives from Hyannis, scarcely better practiced, who arrived to interview me. They took my computer. They searched my car, collecting the messy depths of our station wagon into zip-top plastic bags of various sizes, even the empty coffee cups and candy wrappers. They cataloged pacifiers and teething rings. The postcard from Ladd, its corner bent and crinkled where Sarah had chewed on it. They searched for blood, DNA.

If they had asked me to retrace my steps of the day before, to tell them everything I’d done and everywhere I’d been, I would have. The hour I spent with Ladd sat heavy on my brain, every molecule of my body protesting against it. But they didn’t ask. Because I wasn’t a suspect, they accepted the bare bones of my movements: I’d brought my baby to my friend’s house because Eli was coming. In the morning, I’d gone to check on Charlie and found him dead and Eli bloody. They wanted to know everything about that morning, what Eli had done and said. I told them how I’d leaned over Charlie and tried to pick him up. How I’d run away.

I told them about Deirdre, too, about her affair with Charlie, and the way she used to watch us. They nodded and took notes, asked a couple questions about the timing, and the last time I’d seen her. Just going through the motions, not particularly interested. As far as I could tell, in this killing there was only one suspect.

But they couldn’t find him. Eli seemed to have evaporated into the late-summer air or flown away with the migrating bank swallows. Maybe if I’d been able to dial 911 as soon as I’d left the house, the police would have been there in time to catch him. One thing we knew, Eli hadn’t driven away, at least not in his own car, which still sat in the driveway when the police arrived. But he didn’t leave any small personal items behind, not an overnight bag, not even a toothbrush.

Maybe Eli had swum out to sea, shoes and all, and drowned himself. But then: wouldn’t his body have washed up on shore? The police scoured the tide line, the cranberry bogs, the lakes, the scrub oak woods. According to all evidence Eli had come to Saturday Cove, killed his brother—and then vanished.

That didn’t stop me from expecting him to return at any moment. The evening of the day I found Charlie dead—when uniformed police officers and swirling lights and sirens had finally dispersed—Ladd showed up on Maxine’s doorstep. When he rang the bell, Maxine and I both jumped, grabbing on to each other. Sarah looked up from the floor where she sat stacking red plastic cups, her hand stalling in midair, staring at us.

“It can’t be him,” Maxine said, meaning Eli. There was a patrol car stationed in her driveway. Anyone who made it to the front door would have been vetted by those officers. Still, Maxine wouldn’t step forward, and I wondered if she’d ever be able to open her door again, to anyone. She hadn’t even seen Charlie dead, and she was wrecked by it all, the proximity to so much violence. I started to move and she pulled me back.