“Ever heard of a green man?” she said.
“A green man?”
“Yeah, what does it mean to you?” She studied him, and suddenly he looked fearful again.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“What about Silvanus? That mean anything?”
He shook his head.
Flashing lights suddenly penetrated the hazy gray of dawn, and Abigail could make out the cruiser pulling into the parking lot. James turned his head.
Holding on to the rifle, Abigail planted a hand by her side to push herself upright again, and she felt something embedded in the sand under her palm. Cold metal. She picked at it with her fingers, realized it was a ring, and glanced down at it. Holding it up for him to see, she said, “Your wife’s ring.”
“Ha,” James Pelletier said, smiling.
For the first time in a long time, she thought she might actually live.
She was shaking uncontrollably in the interrogation room when they wrapped her in a blanket and told her to wait for one minute. There had been a brief discussion when she’d been brought in through the reception area over whether she should go directly to the hospital, but Abigail was able to convince the desk sergeant that she was fine, and that she wanted to report a murder, that she’d go to a hospital right after she filed her report. It was clear they thought that she was on drugs, at least that the patrol officer who drove her from the shore to the police station thought so. He asked her several times what substances she’d taken in the previous twenty-four hours. He’d asked in a purposefully calm voice that had made Abigail want to scream at him.
When at last a plainclothes policeman came into the interrogation room, he held two cups of coffee and handed one to her. He was wearing a blue suit and a maroon tie, and when he sat down his stomach pushed out against his button-up shirt so that Abigail could see the T-shirt he wore underneath. He introduced himself as Detective Mando, then indicated a camera in the corner of the room and told Abigail that she was being recorded.
“There’s been a murder on Heart Pond Island,” Abigail said. “Jill Greenly was murdered by her husband two nights ago.”
“Okay,” he said, flipping open his notebook. “What’s your name, ma’am? Your full name, please.”
“It’s Abigail Elliot Baskin. I married Bruce Lamb last week and he brought me to Heart Pond Island for my honeymoon. He’s dead, too.”
“You’re going to have to slow down. Tell me how you wound up out at Hannaford Point.”
“I kayaked from the island.”
He nodded, and she watched him write the words Heart Pond Island, Abigail Baskin, then Bruce Lamb.
“Are you sending someone there?” she said. “They’re probably covering it up right now.”
“Officers are on the way already,” he said. “Don’t worry. Whatever happened to you, we’re going to sort it, okay? In the meantime, I need you to tell me exactly what happened.”
Unable to stop herself, Abigail brought her hand up and pressed a finger and a thumb against her eyelids. She cried solidly for about two minutes while Detective Mando waited. There was nothing she could do to stop it from coming out of her. She’d been wound so tight for so long and now everything was unspooling, her body out of her control.
When she eventually stopped crying, he pushed a box of tissues across the table toward her and said, “Okay. Let’s start at the beginning.”
EPILOGUE
Abigail received the email on Friday afternoon, but didn’t open it until Sunday, after she’d brought her laptop onto her back patio. It was a beautiful late April morning, one of those rare warm spring days in Massachusetts. All the remnants of that winter’s numerous snowstorms were gone, and crocuses and daffodils had just started to appear. The email was from the wedding photographer.
Dear Abigail, I didn’t know if I should send you these pictures, but then I figured that that was your decision, and not mine. I was very sorry to hear about what happened after the wedding. I hope you are doing as well as can be. For what it’s worth, it was great getting to know you and your family and friends a little bit over that weekend in October. The attached link will allow you to look at all of the photographs (almost 500!), if you choose. If you do end up wanting higher res versions of any of these, please let me know. But other than that, no need to respond. All the best and take care, Natalie Ramirez
She remembered the photographer, a woman so tiny that eventually you almost didn’t see her, wending her way around the various wedding events with a camera that looked enormous in her hands.
Abigail wondered what Natalie had thought when she first heard about the events on Heart Pond Island. The initial news reports had been somewhat vague. “Police Investigating Multiple Suspicious Deaths on Honeymoon Island.” Then, later, “Inside the Alleged ‘Cult’ That Punished Wives for Infidelities.” At that point it was a federal case, and the story had broken nationally, leading to a deluge of reporters descending on Boxgrove, where Abigail was now living. She hadn’t returned to New York City after what had happened on the island. She’d returned home, sleeping in her mother’s bed for a while, then in her childhood bedroom. A month earlier she’d moved half a block away to a small rental house, already furnished. Her parents thought it was silly for her to get her own place, but her own place made her feel she was moving in the right direction.
It had been more than six months of talking. To her parents, to Zoe, to a succession of therapists. And, of course, constant interrogations, some under oath, with both federal agents and a slew of attorneys. In the midst of all this she’d somehow managed to work on her novel, about the twins in New York. She knew it was less than stellar but didn’t mind. Involving herself in that fictional
