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Prologue

Three Months Earlier: Summer

‘Wow. This thing is sharp.’ Ryan looked over his shoulder, trying to catch Mary’s eye. ‘Come and see.’

He was standing by the sink in the small kitchen of her house, a rustic cabin by one of Maine’s many remote lakes. It had been in her family for generations, although she was the only one to use it now. Her parents were in assisted living facilities, and her sister lived on the West Coast.

Ryan held up the knife. ‘Really. It’s amazing. Look.’

Mary hesitated. She was deep in a good book, and she was reluctant to interrupt her reading. These days, the cabin was the only place she read, mainly because there was no wifi and the cell service was spotty at best, so the endless slew of notifications on her phone was gone. Besides, she wasn’t sure she really wanted to hear even more about the knife her husband had treated himself to yesterday.

Japanese steel, he’d said, in the knife shop in Freeport. I’ve always wanted a knife like this.

Do it, she’d said. You cook a lot.

They’re expensive.

Doesn’t matter. You’ll use it.

Her hesitation to leave her book wasn’t because she wasn’t interested in him or what he had to share. It was more that Ryan had many enthusiasms and this was merely the latest one; in the six years she’d known him – the last five of them married – he had cycled through tropical plants, an aquarium, coin collecting, endless podcasts and books on the First World War, furniture restoration and the acquisition of broken watches that he intended to fix up. All had burned themselves out, and she suspected that knives would, too.

He smiled at her.

‘Check it out.’

It was clear there was no escape. She put her book face down on the table, the wood dark and scratched, and walked over, resting her head on his shoulder. He took a tomato from a green cardboard box and placed it on the chopping board.

But before he could demonstrate the cutting prowess of his knife, there was the sound of a car engine, then gravel and twigs crunching under wheels.

‘Must be Otis and Sally,’ Mary said.

Otis and Sally – her children from her first, very unsuccessful marriage – had not come with her and Ryan. Otis, now sixteen, had recently got his licence, and, although he was not yet able to drive his friends – Mary thanked whichever legislators had introduced the rule that newly licensed drivers could not take their friends anywhere for nine months – he could drive family.

Which meant his fourteen-year-old sister, Sally. And so they had petitioned to drive here together in the fifteen-year-old Golf she had recently bought for her son. Mary had been reluctant; it was ninety minutes from Barrow, the small mid-coast town where they lived, along remote, narrow roads. There was also the limited cell service, so if something did happen, they would not be able to call her.

Nothing will happen, Mom, Otis had said. And these roads are easy. There’s no one on them. I’ve driven to Portland. That’s much harder.

I don’t know. It’s a long way.

Then we’ll stay home. You and Ryan go, Sally said.

That was not going to happen, although it wouldn’t be long before she and Ryan were here alone. It was increasingly hard to get her children to leave their friends for the night. They had only agreed to come on this occasion, as it was early in the season so the cabin was still a relative novelty.

What do you think, Ryan?

Ryan shrugged. He’s got his licence. So he can drive. Has to do it sometime.

Go Ryan! Otis said. That’s what I’m talking about!

And they were here now, safely. Mary breathed a quiet sigh of relief. This was parenting; constant low-level worry punctured by moments of peace when your offspring – whatever age they were – were in sight.

The car doors slammed, and then they appeared around the back of the house. Otis, who was sensible, at least in the way sixteen-year-old boys were sensible, which meant hardly sensible at all, was carrying a bag. Sally, for whom being sensible was a matter of total indifference, was empty-handed.

‘How was the drive?’ Mary said.

‘Fine.’ Otis put his bag down. ‘Easy.’

Ryan nodded at Sally. ‘Travelling light?’