Chapter 24
The number of vehicles seemed to have doubled in the few minutes Annie was gone. She hoofed from the street to the back door of the Inn again, assuming—correctly—that Francine had gone there first. She was standing, still rigid, at the marble-topped island, where a large platter now sat. She’d no doubt seen the poster on the patio; perhaps it had added to her trancelike demeanor.
Fixings for sandwiches were on the counters along with various rolls of wax paper, plastic, and foil, all of which must have arrived from numerous refrigerators in numerous households on Chappy because they’d shown up so fast.
Claire stood with one arm over Francine’s shoulders, holding her close. Annie glanced around: two large urns perked aromatic coffee; a couple of stainless-steel pots gently bubbled on the stove, frothing from long strings of spaghetti. A small gaggle of women bustled about, stirring pasta, pouring cream into small pitchers, slicing bread. She recognized Georgia Nelson, the hospice nurse, and Georgia’s sister, Lottie, from the community center. Dot was there, too, along with Judy, Ellen, and Sami—all Chappy ladies, essential strands of the fabric that made up the community. They shuttled back and forth to the great room, carrying plates and napkins, mugs and utensils to the expansive dining table, making ready for the searchers, an unofficial army of Vineyard volunteers, comprising anyone who arrived.
“Where’s Jonas?” Francine—her jaw stiff, her teeth gritted—asked Claire.
“I don’t know. But Lucy’s upstairs with two police officers from Oak Bluffs. They’re going through every nook and cranny, honey. They’ll find her.” Claire must have needed to believe that Bella was somewhere inside the Inn, safely under cover, not lost in the fog or out on the water.
Annie looked away; she could not bear the fear exuding from Francine. It was difficult enough to maintain her own self-control.
“Why don’t you text him, honey?” Claire said. “He’s awfully upset.”
Francine neither nodded nor shook her head. She simply said, “I’m going to the beach.”
“I’m right behind you,” Annie said. Then she asked Claire if anyone had checked the cottage. “Bella knows the way. She might have gone there looking for Francine. Or for me.”
“Even if they did, you might as well check it again. Is it open?”
“Probably. We were hauling stuff out of the workshop for the Fair, and God knows I’m not the greatest at locking up. So . . .” She didn’t finish her thought; they had to get moving.
Claire let go of Francine and said to pass the word that coffee and hot food would be ready soon and to come get it whenever they wanted. Then she got back to work shucking scallops.
* * *
Annie grabbed a flashlight from a cabinet by the back door and led Francine outside.
“If anything happens to Bella,” Francine said, her voice husky with anger, “I will never forgive Jonas.”
There was no need to ask why she blamed him. Annie was trying not to, but . . .
They headed toward the cottage with purpose, stepping blindly through the fog, the flashlight of little use, so Annie shut it off. Spotlights had been added in the direction of the meadow, but it was like peering through a sheet of the wax paper in the kitchen—the scene was hazy, surreal, Stephen King–ish. She suddenly remembered her grandmother complaining of hazy vision when she’d had cataracts; Annie wondered if this was how Gram had been seeing the world.
Next to her, Francine shuddered. Annie resisted the urge to reach out to stabilize her. She did not want to be overly protective and have Francine pull away from her again.
More than anything, Annie wanted to tell her that she hoped, no matter what, that Francine would forgive Jonas. She wanted to tell her there was no need to speculate on what he had or hadn’t done, and that not being able to forgive a loved one only made life harder, heavier. But Annie couldn’t say those things right then, because she knew too well it would take time for her to forgive him, too, despite the desperate, vulnerable look he’d had when he’d run into the gym.
If Francine had seen that look, surely she could forgive him. But she had not. And so there they were.
When an outline of her front porch was at last visible, Annie picked up the pace. It was time to stop worrying—again—and get to work.
“If she’s in here, we’ll find her,” Annie said, as if Francine didn’t know how compact the cottage was. “If not,” Annie added, “we’ll go down to the beach.” She quickly wished she hadn’t said that.
Pushing open the door that, indeed, hadn’t been locked, she let Francine go in first. Then, as Annie raised one foot to step in behind her, something caught her eye. Something that did not belong. Sticking out from under the planter on the porch was what looked like a piece of paper. Unless the fog was playing tricks on her eyesight. She bent down, lifted the edge of the planter, and extracted an unlined Post-it Note. She turned the flashlight back on and saw a message printed in block letters. It simply read:
THE GIRL IS FINE. SHE’S SAFE WITH ME.
Annie’s breath caught in her throat. She blinked; she read it again. Her first instinct was to smile. Her lips parted; she almost called out to Francine until she realized that the note hadn’t been signed. Was it an oversight? Or intentional? Could it be a signal of something . . . sinister?
She stared at it again, trying to read between the lines.
The girl is fine. She’s safe with me.
Short. To the point. Nothing was between those lines.
Despite the chill of the December night, a thin line of perspiration formed on her brow. She was still standing on the porch, trying to decide what to do, when Francine reappeared in the doorway.
