“She had a few suggestions and lent me some supplies,” Seton says, handing me a sheet of pink construction paper withCertificate of Apologyprinted in gigantic font along the top. “I, Seton Haviland,” she says, reciting what’s printed on the page, “officially apologize for letting the emotion of a difficult day get the better of me. I overreacted and took my feelings out on you, which you didn’t deserve. I take full responsibility for my actions and understand this apology is yours to accept or reject, as you see fit. With respect, Seton J. Haviland.”
I fold the sheet in half and stow it in the glove box. We could have gone back to being friends without acknowledging yesterday’s blip, but I appreciate the effort. Maybe the note represents a new level of maturity in our relationship. “I’ll keep the evidence, but apology accepted.”
I unfurl the boat cover, and Seton takes the other end to help fold. Ashen skin and dark circles under her eyes tell me she must have been up all night.
“I’d give you money if I could,” I say.
“I didn’t ask you for money,” Seton says. “And thanks, I know you would, but it’s better if you don’t. Paul loaned my mom money once.” She nods toward the Landing. “It was to keep this place going after my father died. She claims their friendship wasn’t the same afterward.”
More money. Mrs. Haviland owed Paul. Isaac hit Freya up for a loan long ago on a TV set. And based on Vance Moodey’s visit to Burkehaven the other day, my mother owes him, too. Who else might be looking to collect on a debt?
We finish folding the cover, and Seton stows it under the rear seat.
“Mom woke early this morning,” she says. “She’s already demanding to be released from the hospital. She claims she saw the smoke from the boat, and by the time she arrived at Burkehaven, the house was in flames. She says someone else was inside, and she tried to help, which is why she was in the building.” Seton touches the stitches on my forehead. “And that same person could have assaulted you. That’s why Gilcrest hasn’t made an arrest. Too much reasonable doubt.”
And why he’s asking so many questions.
Seton sprawls across the back of the boat. “I was up most of the night,” she says. “But so were you. How’s Freya Faith anyway?”
I listen for a tinge of judgment or jealousy in her voice, but all I hear is curiosity. Behind us, some guy in a speedboat pulls in close to the pier. “Hey,” he shouts, “make some room.”
Seton shifts so the badge on her uniform flashes in the sun. The guy runs his hand through his hair. “Sorry,” he says.
“We’ll be out of your way in a minute, sir,” Seton says as I turn on the blower.
“I don’t know how you put up with these Massholes,” I mumble.
“These Massholes areyou,” Seton says.
“I grew up here,” I say.
“Sort of. On the lake. Off to prep school. And now you live in Boston, which makes you an official Masshole.”
“I like to think I’m better than that.”
“Keep hoping,” Seton says, untying the lines and shoving off.
I back into the marina and drop anchor, while the guy in the speedboat swoops in to take the spot. “Last night,” I say, “you could have mentioned Gilcrest had a thing going with Freya before I went home with her.”
Seton closes her eyes, her face lifted to the sun. “Do you have any pot in this boat?”
“Aren’t you on duty?”
“Don’t remind me. And I wasn’t talking to you last night, remember? Besides, you wouldn’t have listened. You weren’t really thinking with your head.”
“True,” I say. “But now your boss has it in for me. He came to Freya’s condo this morning and acted all territorial.”
“Gilcrest isn’t my boss,” Seton says. “We’re peers. We manage different parts of the job. And what do you expect? You stepped on his turf.”
“I didn’t know they were dating. Freya didn’t tell me. Besides, Gilcrest is the one who has a wife and kids.”
“Take it as a compliment,” Seton says. “He’s intimidated by your beautiful eyes. You know it’s true! Besides, Gilcrest and Nicole have been separated for years. They’re still friends, but they’re only married for the state health insurance. She probably got sick of him looking at himself in the mirror.”
“Speaking of which,” I say, showing Seton the photos of Gilcrest at Burkehaven.
She swipes between the two shots. “Be careful what you say to him,” she says. “He’s not as ridiculous as he presents. His act is how he disarms suspects.”
She rolls on her side and props her head on a fist. The stud in her lip glints in the morning light.
