Lacy—Sorry not to have written or called sooner. I hope you’re doing fine and recuperating. I’m so relieved your injuries were not as bad as they could have been. Me, I’m hanging on by a thread. Actually, I am completely overwhelmed with anything and everything. The kids are a mess and refuse to go to school. Pippin cries even more. At times they’re all crying and I want to give up. But I refuse to break down in front of them. They need someone to be strong, so I just go hide in the shower and bawl my eyes out. I can barely survive each day and I hate the thought of tomorrow. Tomorrow without Hugo. Next week, next month, next year without Hugo. I cannot comprehend the future. The present is a nightmare. The past seems so long ago and so happy that it makes me sick. My mother is here, along with my sister, so I’m getting plenty of help with the kids. But nothing is real; everything seems artificial. They can’t stay so they’ll leave soon and I’ll be here with four kids and no husband. I’d like to see you but not now. I need some time. When I think of you I think of Hugo and the way he died. Sorry. Please, just give me some time. Don’t answer right now. Verna
Lacy read it twice and went back to her magazine. She would think about Verna tomorrow.
—
Ann finally got away late Thursday morning, several hours after Lacy had hoped. Wonderfully alone for the first time in ten days, she fell onto the sofa with Frankie and enjoyed the stillness. She closed her eyes and heard nothing, and it was lovely. Then she thought of Verna and of all the horrible sounds echoing through the Hatch home—crying kids and ringing phones and kinfolk shuffling in and out. She felt guilty for the contrast.
She closed her eyes and was about to catch a wink when Frankie growled softly. There was a man standing at her door.
Lacy went to the front window for a closer look. The door was locked. She felt safe. One quick push of a button on the security panel and all manner of alarms would erupt. The man was vaguely familiar—deep tan, lots of long gray hair.
Mr. Greg Myers, she decided. On dry land.
She spoke through the intercom. “Hello.”
His voice was familiar. “Looking for Lacy Stoltz,” he said.
“And who are you?”
“Last name is Myers.”
She opened the door with a grin and said hello. As he stepped inside, she scanned the parking lot and noticed nothing unusual.
“Where’s the Panama hat and gaudy shirt?” she asked.
“I save that for the boat. What happened to all that beautiful hair?”
She pointed to the ugly scar on her head. “Twenty-four stitches and still pretty sore.”
“You look great, Lacy. I was so afraid you were badly injured. The newspapers have not said much about your condition, only that you had a head injury.”
“Have a seat. I assume you want a beer.”
“No, I’m driving. Just some water.”
She pulled two bottles of fizzy water out of the fridge and they sat at a small table in the breakfast nook. “So you’ve kept up through the papers?” she asked.
“Yes, an old habit, I suppose. Since I live on a boat I need some contact with reality.”
“I haven’t looked at a newspaper since the wreck.”
“You haven’t missed much. As for you and Hugo, they’ve already moved on.”
“I’m assuming I was easy to find here.”
“Quite. You’re not trying to hide, are you?”
“No. I’m not living like that, Greg. I’m not afraid.”
“Must be nice. Look, Lacy, I’ve just driven five hours from Palm Harbor. I want to know what happened. You gotta tell me. It wasn’t an accident, was it?”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“Okay. I’m listening.”
“We’ll talk, but first a question. Do you still use the same phones you were using a month ago?”
He thought for a second and said, “One of them.”
“And where is it right now?”
“On the boat. Palm Harbor.”
“Is Carlita on the boat?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Can you call Carlita right now, tell her to get the phone and toss it overboard? Now! You have no choice.”
“Sure.” Myers whipped out a burner and did as instructed. When he ended the call, he said, “Okay, what was that all about?”
“It’s part of the story.”
“Let’s hear it.”
—
Throughout the narrative, Myers at times showed remorse, and at times seemed indifferent to the tragedy. “What a mistake,” he mumbled more than once as Lacy described taking the bait from the informant.
“Was there an autopsy?” he asked. As far as Lacy knew, an autopsy had never been mentioned.
“No. Why would they do an autopsy?”
“I don’t know. Just curious.”
Lacy closed her eyes and began tapping her forehead as if in a trance.
“What is it?” Myers asked.
“He had a light, a light on his head, like a miner or something.”
“A headlamp.”
“I guess. I can see it now. He looked at me through my window, which was shattered.”