Chapter 7: The Storm Rule

Ben said nothing on the drive home.

He carried the crabs inside, put them in the sink, and stood looking out at the water with his hands flat on the counter.

"Morton Linwood has wanted this shoreline for ten years," he said at last. "I've paid the lease on time every month since I was twenty-four."

"He bought the land to get at you."

"He bought it because it's worth four million. You were an excuse."

"That's not better."

"No."

He turned around.

"It's not your fault, Willa."

He had said it flatly, as a fact, and I didn't know what to do with a kindness like that.

So I cooked the crabs, badly, and we ate them standing at the counter with our fingers.

He cracked mine for me without being asked.

By nine the sky outside had gone dark and low.

By ten the wind came in off the sound, and the whole house began to move on its pilings, a slow groan from the floor up.

I went to bed with the door open as always, and the lamp on.

At midnight the rain hit the windows hard.

A gust slammed through the upper hall.

My door swung shut.

The latch clicked, and the lamp went out, and the whole house went black.

I sat up.

I could not see my hand.

Every sound in the world was the sound of that door.

I told myself it was only the wind. I told myself there was nothing on the other side.

I could not make myself stand.

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