“She’s not here,” she said. Then she brushed past Annie and headed toward the beach, plowing through the fog as if, like Bella, it wasn’t there.
Annie caught up with Francine before the young woman dissolved into the shroud.
* * *
Muffled sounds of footsteps, voices, and shouts of Bella’s name—to which there were no audible replies—greeted Annie and Francine when they stepped onto the sand.
“No sign of her yet?” Annie asked the first person she saw, a man. The patch on his uniform identified him as a West Tisbury police officer. He did not look familiar.
He shook his head.
“Where’s Detective Lyons?” Annie continued, determined not to show anguish or to let on that her right hand was clenched around the Post-it in her pocket.
“Don’t know,” came the reply. “Maybe he’s on the boat?” He pointed toward blurry red lights that blinked on and off through the layer of haze that topped the water.
Apparently, they’d wasted no time hauling the rescue boat down the path.
She walked a few feet to the shoreline and began to cup her hands to yell for John. Then she knew that would be futile; the ambient sounds of the engine and distant voices along with the slap-slap of the incoming tide would surely drown her plea.
Incoming tide, she thought, and quickly squelched the idea of what that could mean to a small girl, wobbly on her little feet, unfamiliar with being alone in the dark—or, in fact, with being alone at all.
She tried to swallow but could not.
The West Tisbury officer was suddenly beside her; Francine was next to him. “I can get Sergeant Lyons on the radio,” he said.
Annie clutched the Post-it more tightly. “Please do. Tell him I’ve thought of something important. I’m Annie, his fiancée.” She needed to show John the note before she told Francine about it.
The officer stepped aside, clicked on the radio on his shoulder, and called to John.
With her free hand, Annie reached over and cupped Francine’s arm. They stood motionless until the officer signed off.
“He’ll be right in,” he said.
“Thanks. Do you know Earl Lyons? Is he still up in the meadow?”
Motioning away from the beach, he said, “Last I knew, he was. He’s with Linc Butterfield. And the boy.”
Francine stiffened. “Jonas,” she said, spitting out the word.
Ignoring the retort, Annie told the officer, “This is Francine. Bella’s mother.” She turned back to her. “If you don’t want to see Jonas, at least go talk to Earl. More than anyone, he’ll be on top of this. He loves her as much as we do.” She unlatched her hand.
“If you want, I’ll take you to him,” the cop suggested.
Francine hesitated.
“Go,” Annie said.
Francine’s big eyes darted from side to side, searching for an answer that wasn’t there. And Annie’s heart broke a little more.
Then Francine quickly spun and headed back up the small dune toward the path; the officer from West Tisbury followed closely behind, his flashlight beamed straight down at the path, which Annie realized must afford a clearer view. It probably wasn’t the first time the officer had needed to search for something—or someone—in the island fog.
Annie watched until they were out of sight, then allowed soft tears to form.
A minute later, John was in front of her, his arms around her.
“We’ll find her,” he said, the way he had before.
But still, they had not.
