Dad promised nothing. He was snoring, mouth open, one fist clenched beside his head. She stuffed the extra pillow against his back so he’d sleep on his side—that had been a persistent fear these past months, that he’d vomit and choke, she’d read about that happening—switched off the lamp, and continued to sit on the edge of the bed in darkness, her own fists balled.
She didn’t know who this helpless anger was for, if she could pick just one target, but it left her knotted with tension that could be eased only by going over the facts, digging up the bodies again and again and hoping for something new to emerge.
In her room, her tablet glowed with cold comfort, glinting off the sea glass and shells in their neat rows. There were more true-crime nuts out there than she’d ever imagined, entire sites dedicated to unsolved cases. The Garrisons were hot right now, that familiar navy-and-white family portrait reused again and again, the same links reposted to Cassidy’s website, which showcased her musical career and a video journal she’d kept while touring. The videos were usually shot in some greenroom right before Cassidy went onstage, featuring the girl in full makeup and formal gown, saying how very excited she was to perform. Despite the difference in their coloring, there were similarities between her and Tristan: the shape of their jaws, the arch of their brows. Cassidy was animated, high energy, with none of the aloof detachment Pearl associated with her older brother.
Pearl read all the message boards she could find. Tristan’s name leaped out repeatedly. As much as everyone liked him for the crime—the only survivor, the sole heir to all that money—it was impossible. He couldn’t have committed the murders.
A security camera in the Sugarloaf condo complex had caught Tristan driving in around nine thirty p.m., nearly three and a half hours after he’d left Tenney’s Harbor, exactly the time it would take to drive straight there with one pit stop for gas. Five witnesses—two of them Tristan’s vacationing Yale friends and three “guests” (girls, Pearl assumed)—corroborated that he’d arrived at that time, free of blood or wounds. One of the girls must’ve been intended for Tristan, put on reserve until the crown prince made his appearance.
A notification popped up on one of Pearl’s social media accounts; this late, there was no worry of Mom being online. A friend request from Bridges Spencer. Pearl accepted.
A few seconds later, an instant message box appeared with a thumbnail selfie of Bridges: U always up this late?
The cursor blinked. A muscle moved in Pearl’s jaw. Her fingers flew over the pad. When I’m bored. I thought you were an early riser.
And a night owl.
Bridges, you amaze me. As she awaited his response, she accessed his page, scrolled through photos, read old posts, hunting for signs of Tristan. Searching, endlessly searching, for what was written between the lines.
Eight
THE DAY OF the regatta seemed tailor-made for sailing, the sky cerulean and clear, the wind pulling steadily northeast. The crowd swarmed all the way from the public landing to the yacht club, tourists and locals mixing, snapping pictures of the yachts, eating ice cream and fried seafood sold at the takeout on the waterfront walkway.
Pearl put her hand up to block the sun, spotting Bridges sitting on one of the granite posts by the yacht club marina entrance. He wore a navy-striped hoodie, chino shorts, and boat shoes without socks. “Very nautical,” she said as he slid down to his feet. “Did a big kid take your captain’s hat?”
“Hey, I’m just the first mate. We don’t get hats.” They fell into step, the silence self-conscious but not uncomfortable. More experimental, trying out the new intimacy between them. They’d been chatting online almost every night this week. Silly verbal sparring on the surface; beneath, reaching out to each other while the rest of the world was asleep. She often wondered if he’d just come back from another clandestine boat ride with Tristan, going God knew where on the bay at an hour when almost no one was on the water. “I only got here a couple minutes ago.” He checked his phone, snorted. “Akil’s bitching at me to hurry. This way.”
She followed him through the crowd. A steel drum band was playing somewhere, hammering out a deafening rhythm as they passed other sailboats lined up for the race.
Tristan’s Islander 36 was at the end, brilliant white with a blue cabin housing. The name stenciled across the stern was the Cassidy Claire.
Akil sat in a deck chair above, mirrored aviator shades on, one foot propped up. “Dude. We thought you’d bailed.”
“When have I ever.”
Pearl stepped onto the deck and saw Tristan kneeling by the mast, pulling the lines off their cleats and winches. He stopped what he was doing at the sight of her, one arm resting on his knee, the wind stirring his hair around his collar. She’d taken more care with her appearance today, khaki shorts and a white gathered top she’d bought last summer and only worn once because she didn’t think it was really her style.
There was movement on the opposite side of the deck, and Hadley Kurtzweil walked into view. She stopped at the sight of Bridges, flushing slightly. “Hi.” She held up a bottle, giving it a shake. “Water?”
Akil waved at the cabin door. “Go ahead.” Hadley went below, and a moment later, Quinn followed. She wore a black crocheted bikini that showed off every sinewy inch of her; she caught the cabin door and held it, facing Bridges and Pearl. “Akil sent us an invite. Hope you don’t mind. Oh, wait.” She tilted her head. “Is this awkward for you, Bridge?”
Bridges didn’t speak right away. When he did, his voice was flat. “It’s Tristan’s boat.”
Quinn turned to Tristan, hand on her hip. He was silent for a beat, then looked back to his work. “You should stay,” he told her.
She smirked and disappeared down the steps. Bridges slowly turned to Akil, his eyes wide, jaw set. “What . . . the hell.”
Akil tipped back in his chair. “Hey. You bring around whoever you want, why can’t I?” The look he leveled at Pearl blew away any pretense: she was a joke that had worn very thin. She held his stare.
Tristan straightened. “Akil, let the topping lift out.”
Akil got up and let down one of the lines that held the boom until it hung loosely, then recleated it. Bridges turned to Pearl. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know. We can leave—”
“It doesn’t matter.” She heard the girls’ laughter below, tinkling and faint. “I can take it if they can.”
“Are you sure?” She nodded briskly, and after a second, he breathed out. “Cool. Okay.”
She found an out-of-the-way place to perch and watch the boys finish prepping. Tristan started the motor and steered them into the direction of the wind while Akil and Bridges hoisted the sails, which luffed briefly against the mast before Bridges cleated them off.
There were eight yachts already at the designated starting area near the end of the breakwater, one by the name of Freedom, another Starchaser; from here, the crowd on the docks was little more than distant color and sound. The girls came back up and resumed their positions on the far side of the deck, stretching out on towels with tanning lotion and magazines, seemingly oblivious to the competitive tension in the air.
At ten, the starting shot sounded. Tristan came forward from the cockpit. “Starboard tack.” He switched places with Bridges, trimming the jib while Akil did the same to the mainsail. The Cassidy Claire tilted to the right, sails puffing with wind, sliding with surprising nimbleness toward the rocky breakwater.
They glided past the Freedom, the Penobscot Princess, the Stand Fast. Rocks loomed large.
No one spoke as the hull passed within twelve feet of the breakwater. Pearl gripped her knees, straining for the grinding sound of rock against wood. Bridges was rigid at the helm; Akil crouched on the deck, waiting.