Chapter 8: Fogg Island

The Fogg Island ferry took forty minutes in a flat grey chop.

I stood at the rail the whole way with my hands jammed in my pockets and my stomach in knots.

There were nine passengers and a pickup truck.

None of them was Ansel.

I had checked twice.

The island was a rock with a lighthouse and a single inn at the end of the pier.

The woman at the desk was reading a paperback.

"Larkin?" she said, without looking up. "Room six. She's been here three days."

I went up the stairs two at a time.

I didn't knock.

Cora was sitting on the edge of the bed in a grey sweatshirt and jeans, with her hair in a knot.

Her wedding dress hung in its garment bag on the closet door.

She stood up so fast the mattress rocked.

"Wynne."

For one long moment, I wanted to hold her.

Then I thought of Beatrice's palm cracking across my face, and of three hundred people watching, and I stayed where I was.

"You left me with it," I said.

"I know."

"You left me standing in front of the whole town with a bouquet and a note."

"I know. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"You said, look after him."

"I didn't know what else to write."

"Try the truth."

Her face crumpled.

She sat down on the bed again and put her hands over her mouth.

My sister was thirty-one years old, and for the first time in my life she looked younger than me.

"What did you do?" I said.

"I lied to him."

"About what?"

"You know about what."

I did.

I had known since the phone call, and in the vestry doorway, and in the boathouse last night with his hands on me.

But I wanted to hear her say it.

"Say it, Cora."

She dragged in a breath.

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