Dean stepped forward. “It was me. Like Pixie said, Mr. Shepherd, Grant wanted to check his crab traps. So I took him out. The traps were empty, so I dropped him off in front of your house. He was on his way up the walk, and I rolled the rowboat to the garage. Grant was wet but fine.”
“Yeah, see, that’s the thing—the boat isn’t in the garage,” Mr. Shepherd replied. “Henry saw you take Grant out, but he didn’t see you come back.”
At times like this, people say, accusations hang in the air.
But nothing ever hangs in the air in Useless Bay. Everything roars and rages and whistles through open doors.
“Maybe you should come with me to headquarters . . . uh . . .” Sheriff Lundquist searched our faces. He searched his memory. He’d lived down the road from us all our lives and still couldn’t tell us apart.
“Dean,” Dean said.
“Dean. Right. We’ll ask you some questions and get to the bottom of this. Since you’re a minor, your mom will need to come, too.”
“This is ridiculous,” Mom said, and threw her kitchen towel at Mr. Shepherd. “I don’t know what you’re accusing my child of, but you should know better. They’d never let anything happen to Grant.”
“Maybe not intentionally,” Mr. Shepherd said. “But these are a reckless bunch of boys, Louise.”
Mom looked as though she wanted to scratch his eyeballs out.
Dean held her back. “It’s okay, Mom. The sooner we figure out what happened, the sooner we get Grant back, right? Isn’t that what’s most important?”
She looked like she was going to hiss like our gas range, which dated from 1973. “Fine. I’ll get my coat.” She turned around. “I had better not hear that the rest of you have been sitting on your asses while we’re out. Spread out. One of you go with Meredith.”
“I will.” Sammy said.
“Pix, you go with Henry. Take the dog with you.” And turning off “That’s Amore” from her Rat Pack greatest hits, Mom went off with Dean into the night.
At least Dean was saved the indignity of having to get into the back of the police cruiser, but he did have to make the walk of shame to the minivan so Mom could drive him to the Island County sheriff’s department, where he’d be questioned like a delinquent.
I took Dean’s jacket and boots out to the front porch for Henry, since he wouldn’t come in. He threw his useless Windbreaker on the driveway and yanked the oilskin jacket and waders from me.
I also brought my emergency kit. We had five of them—one for each of us. They had flashlights and bandages and Swiss army knives and flares and walkietalkies and EpiPens, even though it wasn’t strictly legal for us to carry them in Washington State. Allergic people were supposed to carry their own, but Frank once had to perform a tracheotomy on a kid who didn’t know he couldn’t eat shellfish. “Never again,” Frank vowed. “That kid lost his pulse way too fast.”
I took the flashlight out of the emergency kit and flicked it on. Henry and I walked to the trailhead, Patience galumphing, leading the way.
I knew Henry was in bad shape because he was picking at the scars on his hands again. He did that only when he was really worked up about something.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “Grant’ll turn up.”
“Jesus Christ, will you give it a rest, Pix?” he said. “I saw you.”
He snatched the flashlight from me and walked ahead.
I watched the back of his head until he was so far away from me all I could see was the beam the flashlight threw in front of him, jumping over the Scotch broom.
I had no idea what was happening. Henry was one of the few people who could tell the five of us apart. Even in a storm. In the dark. At a distance. He would’ve looked for the ponytail.
Why was Henry lying for me?
We both knew it wasn’t Dean who took Grant out in the rowboat.
It was also true that Grant had said he’d wanted to check the crab traps. But when we got there, I realized something worse was going on from the way he was acting. Grant had barely spoken and appeared to be shivering, even though it wasn’t cold outside.
What had him so worked up, I still had no idea.
And neither, from the looks of things, did Henry.
four
HENRY
Useless Bay. What a stupid name. It came from the Vancouver Expedition of 1792, when the keel of Captain Vancouver’s boat hit the bottom before his anchor could. No moorage? The place must be useless.
That was the same expedition that gave the island its name, when Joseph Whidbey took a smaller boat through the treacherous waters of Deception Pass to the north of the island, proving that this body of land was an island and not a peninsula. The fact that he didn’t wind up as kindling in those waters is a heroic feat in itself, worthy of having an island named after you, for sure.