THEY WENT OUT into the bay, sailing as they had done the day of the regatta: Pearl trimming the sails, Tristan at the helm. They didn’t speak much. It was a relief, not having to do anything but read the changes in the wind and watch the water spread out before them.
They passed Little Nicatou. It was impossible not to imagine Bridges and Cassidy meeting there, maybe sitting on the lip of the boathouse as Pearl had done with him that morning. Telling each other how they felt, touching for the first time. Pearl thought of Bridges’s white, agonized face this morning, pleading with her to keep his secret, not to ruin everything. Watching Tristan’s back, she couldn’t say if it was guilt bothering her, or maybe, deep down, a case of wounded pride. Was she that petty? Was she really upset because it turned out that Bridges had always controlled what they shared, using her to fill the hole left by a girl whose act Pearl could never hope to follow?
The wind pushed them northwest, into open water. The rain started to spit faster, speckling Pearl’s face and lashes; she put up her hood. The sky had gone from patchwork to solid oyster gray.
Tristan locked the wheel into autopilot and came forward. “If you want a rain jacket, I’ve got some below.” He paused. “We could have a drink. If you’re interested.”
She shifted, glancing up at the sails, the telltales fluttering. “We’re okay to leave her for a second?”
“It’ll be fine. Nothing out here but waves.”
He held the cabin door for her, and she ducked under his arm, aware of their closeness as they started down together. Telling herself she wanted this, that uncertainty was all a part of it.
Pearl leaned against the galley as Tristan withdrew a bottle of port wine, something she’d never drunk and wasn’t sure if she wanted to. But she was tired of holding glasses as props, setting things on coasters and hoping that nobody would notice. Tristan poured her a finger’s worth and handed her the glass, saying, “You don’t seem like much of drinker,” as if her thoughts had been broadcast.
She found she’d lost her taste for lying. “No. My dad’s got that covered.”
Tristan took his own glass, sipped. “He’s got a problem?” His eyes were calm, no judgment to be read in them.
“I guess so.” She checked herself. “Yeah. He does. I didn’t used to think so, but—” But Reese had always known and never pushed her on it. That got her thinking of their phone call, of Indigo’s hands smoothing Reese’s clothes. She wouldn’t dwell on that, not this afternoon. “I think he’s finally figuring out that he needs some help.”
“You’ve been running things at home for a while, haven’t you?” When she looked up, surprised, Tristan shrugged, finishing his drink. “It’s your personality. Efficient. Responsible.”
“Wow. I sound like a party waiting to happen, huh?”
Tristan gave a rare smile, tucked it away. “You’re reliable. You know the Yeats quote, ‘Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold.’ You’d never let that happen, if you could help it. It’s not a bad thing.”
“Thank you. And thank you for assuming I know Yeats.” Another twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Hey, two smiles in one day. I must be doing something right.”
He looked at her. Then he leaned in, lowering his face to hers. She closed her eyes as he brushed his nose and lips over her temple, into her hair. He held his face there a long moment, breathing her scent, but he didn’t kiss her, not yet. His hand slid up her side, over her shoulder to stroke her neck, and then he pulled back, still close enough that she stood under the shadow of his bent head, the smell of port rich and sweet. “I’ll go up top, make sure we’re still on a good heading. Be right back.” He went to a closet and pulled out two rain jackets, leaving one laid over the galley counter for her as he went up the stairs.
Pearl smoothed her hair where he’d touched her, exhaled shakily, then took her glass over to one of the settees. The port was heady and powerful, not bad at all, and she sipped as she waited for him, reaching out to brace herself as the boat gave an unexpected pitch. When she sat back, her gaze landed on a footlocker under the opposite settee and lingered there.
The lock was very small, the steel catching the gleam of the lamplight. Her hand lowered her glass slowly, mechanically, setting it on the chart table.
Her bag hung over a coat hook on the wall. Tristan’s word—reliable—flitted through her mind, how she’d been considering telling him everything about Dad. I don’t know if you heard about the caretaker. . . . But she was going for her wallet now, popping open the coin purse and shaking out the keys.
Pearl knelt and tried one of the keys in the lock. It fit. She dragged the footlocker out the rest of the way and opened the lid.
Not much inside. Some traveler’s checks, registration papers proving ownership of the boat to one David Garrison. A small snub-nosed pistol and a box of cartridges, for protection, presumably. And a yellow-and-black digital camera in a waterproof case.
Pearl glanced at the cabin door, her heartbeat insistent against her chest; he’d be back any second. She picked up the camera, examining it. It didn’t look like something that would’ve belonged to Cassidy. It had only a few simple buttons, and there was a sticker on the case from a cartoon popular with the middle school set. She remembered the video of Cassidy sneaking up on Joseph, him grabbing for her camera, Cassidy laughing—Mom says you can’t use it unless I say so. Sometime between then and last August, Joseph had gotten his own camera.
She turned it on. It had both picture and video capability. The few pictures were of nothing, blurry selfies of Joseph and some friends, giving peace signs or hanging upside down from tree branches. A surprise-attack shot of Cassidy sitting in the grass with a book, smiling, her eyes closed.
Pearl didn’t have to look any farther than the last video recorded. Water sounds, a close shot of a weathered board with a row of action figures straddling it. Joseph’s voice, low, deepened for play: “We’ve found their hideout . . . follow me.” His hand came into the shot, walking Captain America along the board, then diving him into a plastic crate of beach toys. This went on for some time, and Pearl forwarded through the scenes until the shot shifted.
Joseph had moved to the space between the boards, still filming, the camera badly off center. A cockeyed view of the Garrisons’ private stretch of beach was visible, and so was Tristan, standing along the tree line, hands in his pockets, his back to where Joseph hid in the Roost. A man stood with him, dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, a cigarette in his hand. Pearl recognized him, though the sight of them together made no sense, had no place in the world as she understood it.
Tristan and Evan Sanford, Yancey’s son, continued talking, whatever was said too far off to be caught by the microphone. After they parted without a handshake or much of a good-bye, Evan went up into the trees, following some unseen trail. Tristan turned and began making his way back, lifting his head. Catching sight of his brother, and the camera.
There was a scraping, fumbling sound as Joseph moved, his knees sliding over sand-covered planks, backing toward the ladder. The last thing the camera caught was a flash of Tristan coming toward him, walking faster, gaze locked on the Roost.
When Pearl looked back, the cabin door was open, and he was there, as she knew he’d be, his jacket beaded with rain. Holding his gaze, she slowly lowered the camera into the box.
Tristan came down the steps, pushing his hood back. He stared at the footlocker for a long moment, considering what was inside. “You watched it.”
“I wasn’t . . .” She shook her head. “I didn’t. I was only looking at it.”
He walked over. “I never thought to check in there. I guess I just . . . stopped seeing it.” His tone was slightly unbelieving, the idea of something not occurring to him so novel that he didn’t even seem perturbed. “David kept those keys in the lockbox at the house in the off-season. They should’ve been burned. Where did you find them?”