Drinking my morning coffee, I try to shake off the lingering feeling of doom that the nightmare left behind. I feel desperate forthe familiarity of a hot cup of java, but I’m also struck by the irony that this calming morning ritual is actually bad for my frazzled nervous system.Oh, well.This is no time to give up caffeine.
I’m pleased to find my ankle is much better. There’s hardly any swelling now, and I can walk with just an Ace bandage, thanks to Grace’s special paste. Even so, I continue to use the crutch. I don’t want David to think I can fully resume my duties—the more he’s occupied with the twins, the easier it will be to investigate him.
The question ishow?
It’s not like I can ask my mother if she knew a man named David Dunne and if he and Aunt Susie ever hung out at the Shack together. My mother would have some questions for me, namely: “Where the hell are you?” and “What are you doing?”
I could rifle through David’s dresser drawers while he’s busy with his kids, but what would I find? People don’t hide their secrets under piles of socks and underwear anymore. These days, we keep our lies and deceit, our embarrassments and dark truths, close to us at all times, locked in our phones and laptops, safe from prying eyes. I’m no computer hacker, so I feel stuck.
With my investigation stalled, I focus my efforts on my paying job—after all, I am still David’s employee. The twins don’t know that I suspect their father of being a killer. They want to play with LEGOs, watch cartoons, and eat Fluffernutter sandwiches, because one apparently cannot have enough marshmallows while on vacation. After doing all that and more, I take them to the beach for some outdoor fun.
I limp behind as they race ahead, reminding them to stay out of the water until I get there. I feel so much closer to the children now than when I started, which makes it easier to envision eighteen different tragedies unfolding simultaneously, all involving some variation of drowning.
A tablespoon of water is all it takes, as my mother would say. I can feel her fear and worry invading my brain like a virus.
The kids go into the water while I stand watch. Even though they’re just splashing in the shallows, I insist they wear floaties. Awater rescue with my injury might not go so well. It figures that when actuallyinthe water, Brody objects to wearing the inflatable turtles around his arms. But I insist, or else he’ll have to play on the shore, and that’s that. By now, I’ve earned enough nanny respect that he doesn’t push back.
After our water fun, we make sandcastles. The wet sand is disturbingly reminiscent of the dirt from my dream. High above, a hawk circles. I wonder if it’s the same bird I saw during the disastrous hike with Lucas and Rick. How a bird can spot its prey from such great heights is miraculous. I feel a duty to make my young charges aware of this soaring spectacle.
“Look,” I say, pointing. “That hawk is searching for a fish from way up there.”
Brody cranes his neck skyward, using his hand as a visor. “How can it see a fish from that high up?” he asks with genuine interest.
My heart swells with appreciation for their pure, endless awe and wellspring of curiosity. I must remind myself that the children aren’t their father. They don’t have poisoned blood. Their DNA isn’t tainted. No matter what their father may or may not have done, I won’t label or judge them. In fact I feel all the more protective of the twins, knowing David could be dangerous.
“All birds of prey have incredible eyesight,” I tell Brody. Out comes my phone, and a quick Google search later, I have details to share. “Hawks have eight times better vision than people. But their eyesight isn’t as good as an eagle’s, which can spot something to eat from over two miles away.”
“How do you know that’s not an eagle?” Becca asks.
Leave it to the five-year-old to make me question myself.
“I think eagles are larger than hawks,” I say, squinting into the sun to see if this bird is on the smaller side, and indeed it is.
“I want to be an eagle when I grow up,” announces Brody. He begins to imitate his newly adopted spirit animal, extending his arms like wings as he dips and dives about the beach.
“I spy, with my eagle eyes, a fish from miles away!” he shouts delightedly.
I’m about to start a game of I Spy when a jolt of inspiration hits me. It’s the magical kind, like a gift from Mary Poppins herself. Let’s call itsupercalifragilisticexpi-inspiration, which I define as a burst of genius that has the power to change everything.
A line from the movie pops into my head. “Why do youalwayscomplicate things that are really quite simple?” Mary asked Bert, her dear old friend and skilled chimney sweep.
Why indeed?
Thank you, Mary.
I don’t need to be a highly skilled computer hacker to break into David’s phone. I just need my eagle eyes to peer over his shoulder while he’s unlocking his device so that I can steal his passcode. Will it be easy? No. But it’s my best shot at uncovering his secrets—a picture, a note, a clue—something that will link him to the disappearance of at least one of the missing women from Lake Timmeny. And I’ll have plenty of opportunities to score the prize because, as is true for everyone these days, David’s phone is essentially fused to his palm. He’ll unlock it more times than I can count, and with some luck, I too will get my fish.
It’s dinner at last. David makes pizzas, and the kids go bonkers for them. I guess they’ve had their fill of hot dogs and hamburgers. They’ve been running around amped up on an early sugar high because their thoughtful nanny decided to make banana splits before the meal was served.
“Special treat,” I said as I drowned the ice cream in hot fudge and heaped on the whipped cream and butterscotch sauce. I had asked David to pick up the ingredients at the store, fully intending to use it as part of my arsenal. Sugar-high twins plus a hobbled nanny will help keep him distracted. Naturally, I play up my injury anytime I catch David looking.
One thing I didn’t count on was Lucas getting in the way. That boy is everywhere. I can’t seem to shake him, and he’s like bug repellent for David since he was caught swapping spit with Fiona.I go to the picnic tables, and Lucas follows me there. I’m plating pizzas for the kids, who can barely sit still long enough to eat them, and I have Lucas breathing down my neck. How am I supposed to stay close to David this way?
“Should we give the picture to the police?” Lucas whispers.
The boy’s not dumb, I’ll give him credit for that. He recognized the house in the photograph; then he sourced Susie’s picture on the internet and found her missing persons poster. I wonder if, like me, he’s thinking the bones from the construction site could be what’s left of my aunt, and we just discovered a piece of evidence.
I pull him aside as discreetly as possible. “I’ll handle this,” I say.
