How will I tell Francine about the doll?
It had been the one with the orange hair made from the same yarn that Claire had used to knit a sweater for Francine last Christmas, because by then Francine was in Minneapolis, where the winters were bone cold, colder even than the Vineyard got in January, when the wind often whipped off the water and spun around the island like a cyclone in a deep freeze.
As far as Annie knew, Bella hadn’t yet named the trio of dolls that Claire had made, though she’d assigned each of them chores: the brunette was in charge of picking blueberries for dinner; the blonde mopped the floor; the orange-haired one shopped for groceries and toys.
Closing her eyes, Annie tried not to think about what now seemed inevitable: that Bella had, indeed, made her way down to the beach, that she’d wandered into the water, that she’d been swept off her feet by what might have been a gentle wave, but she was so small that even a gentle wave could have pulled her out to sea. She could have been caught in an undertow or stumbled on some pebbles and fallen face-first into the water.
Annie stopped herself from crying out, though fresh tears formed in her eyes. She understood why Francine didn’t want to see or speak to Jonas. Ever again. Even if they found Bella safe and sound, the trauma of last night would not be easy to erase. How could Francine ever trust him again?
And what about the new baby? Was it too late for Francine to change her mind and have an abortion? Annie didn’t know what the laws were anymore; she’d had no need to until now. She wouldn’t blame Francine if she decided it would hurt too much to raise Jonas’s baby when he’d been the one who’d caused Bella to disappear . . . and never come back.
Still, Annie wondered if she could convince Francine that the way she felt right then might not be how she’d feel forever, that having an abortion would always be with her, nagging at her for years, the way that Annie’s had. The way she’d never forgiven herself for having had it, even though the baby would have been a constant reminder of her good-for-nothing husband Mark. But Annie also would have had a lovely child who would have been part of her.
She wondered if she should share that with Francine now.
Next to her, John began to stir. Annie snuggled closer, letting his strong, steady pulse thrum against her shoulder, his arm around her where it had been when he’d made her go to bed, the heat of his body the only reason Annie supposed that she’d been warm. And had been able to sleep at all.
Last night, he’d wanted to tell Francine about the discovery of the doll. But Annie had hesitated, partly because she’d nearly been immobilized by the shock, partly because of Francine and Jonas’s unborn baby. If Francine miscarried, Annie might feel it was her fault. So she convinced John to wait until he knew if the note revealed any fingerprints or other identifying marks.
Someone from the State Police Crime Lab would be on the early boat in the morning to collect whatever evidence they could and take whatever John’s team had already gathered. They’d bring it back to the main lab, which was west of Boston, to be tested. As Annie recalled from having done research, the process could take three to five days. Maybe they’d tighten the time frame because a child was at stake. If she was still alive.
As daylight began its slow rise over the Atlantic, over East Beach on Chappy, Annie decided to let John sleep as long as possible. She wanted to check on Francine, who typically rose early. She might even be in the kitchen at the Inn, preparing breakfast for the tenants and for everyone and anyone who’d shown up during the night to help with the search. Thank God John had corralled the officers who’d found the doll and sworn them to secrecy.
Annie hadn’t always done well at keeping secrets. Especially like now, when holding back did not feel fair. Maybe John was right, that Francine should know. If that was true, Annie should be the one to tell her.
Sliding out from under John’s loving arm, she tiptoed to the bathroom, where she quickly showered and pulled on yesterday’s clothes. When brushing her teeth, she decided not to check her face in the mirror. She already felt as awful as she must look. Out in the living room, she put on her down parka and woolen accessories and slipped her phone into a pocket, glad that she’d retrieved it from the Jeep last night. Then she raised her chin—as if the small act would give her confidence—and stepped outside onto the porch, where she nearly tripped over Kevin, who sat, one hand gripping a coffee mug, the other one resting on his head, as if he were thinking. Or crying, like Jonas had.
Sitting on the wide-board plank, Annie curled her arm through his.
“Hey, brother. Did you get any sleep?”
“Not really. I kept hoping she’d turn up. She’s been out all night, you know.”
Yes, Annie knew.
“Nothing’s going to be right until we find her,” he said.
She rested her head against his shoulder, which, though not quite as muscular or as strong as John’s, was as comforting. Her brother, she knew, would always be there for her. There was little risk that something—or someone—would ever come between them, like a prickly stepdaughter who, if she hadn’t kidnapped Bella, seemed to want her father and Annie to split up. Or a creepy brother-in-law who wanted to steal the house and might have already stolen Bella. Kevin would always be there for Annie, and she would be there for him, just as their mother had planned, before either of them had known it.
“How are you doing?” she asked.
His shoulders raised a little, then came down. “Same as you, I expect.”
“Still no news?” It was a preposterous question, as Annie knew that John would have been the first to be alerted.
He shook his head, and she snuggled closer, the brisk morning air brushing her cheeks.
“We’ll find her,” she whispered. She longed to tell him about the note and the doll but she couldn’t. Not until Francine knew. Then she asked, “Have you seen Francine?”
“She’s in the kitchen. Claire showed up early, and they’re moving like robots, not talking, just doing stuff. Baking pumpkin bread. Making coffee.” He gestured toward his mug as if only now remembering that he was holding it. He took a sip and wiped his brow. “I don’t know how they’re functioning.”
“What about Jonas?”
“He’s with Taylor. They walked from here to the ferry, walked back, then retraced their steps. They went past the Inn all the way out to the point. And back. Now they’re in the woods.” He sipped again. “Tide’s coming in again.”
She tried not to think about that or about any evidence that might be washed away. “It got dark so early yesterday,” she said. “But soon we’ll have full light. It will be easier for everyone to see.” She hadn’t wanted to check the weather report. If the temperature was going to drop, if the wind was going to pick up, if snow was on the way, Annie didn’t want to know.
“Reinforcements showed up around midnight. At least two dozen drove in from Aquinnah.”
