The Language of Sand

An hour later, she reached the lighthouse. In her front yard, where her Volvo normally would have been, was Sheriff Larner’s police cruiser.

He must have found your car. Maybe he can radio to Denny so you’ll catch the ferry.

The cruiser was empty. The front door to the house was ajar. Because of the boards on the windows, she couldn’t tell if the lights were on.

Oh, God. You were robbed. The sheriff’s come to see what was stolen.

Abigail nudged open the door. The light in the upstairs hall was on, illuminating the staircase. Her CD player was piled on top of the hand-carved end table, which had been inverted and was resting on the mahogany desk chair from the study.

If you were robbed, why is everything still here?

Footsteps sounded from the second floor. She was about to shout to Larner. However, her voice wouldn’t cooperate.

What if that isn’t him?

She had to find somewhere to hide. The living room and kitchen were too open. The basement door would squeak. Abigail made a dash for the lighthouse, slipping inside as footfalls descended the stairs.

The lamp room.

Abigail took a step onto the spiral staircase, bypassing the bottom one because she remembered it creaked. Reason wrenched her body to a stop. The lamp room was the last place she wanted to go, because then she’d be trapped. And if she accidentally stepped on a stair that did creak, the burglar would hear her.

The lamp room or the burglar. The rock or the hard place.

Darkness pooled in the well of the lighthouse. Her eyes were dilating, and so was her fear. Through a crack in the doorjamb, Abigail could see out into the living room. A figure rounded the stairwell. It was Sheriff Larner. He had a stack of Wesley Jasper’s ledgers in his arms. He put them on top of her CD player, readying to move the items to his car.

Ceding logic, Abigail burst through the lighthouse door. “What are you doing?”

Larner’s hand flew to his holster. Abigail froze. The events surrounding the robberies fell together for her. Larner had stopped her the evening of one break-in. He hadn’t been at his office the night of the next.

“Merle was right. He knew it was a native, someone from Chapel Isle.”

Larner bristled at the suggestion that somebody suspected him. He glanced at the telephone. A knot tightened in Abigail’s stomach. He had a gun. She had nothing to protect herself with, no weapon, only words.

“Merle thought whoever was robbing the houses needed money. Did you need the money? Is that why?”

“Does it matter?”

That answer had too many meanings, none of them positive.

“Was it for your daughter?”

Taken aback, Larner didn’t answer.

“Ruth told me she’s sick. That she can’t pay her medical bills.”

He lowered his chin for an instant, yielding a little.

“Rental properties are covered by insurance. The owners wouldn’t lose any money. You knew that. You guessed there’d be expensive antiques here after what Denny said at the Kettle. The furniture might be worth a few hundred bucks, though I doubt you’ll get much for my radio or those ledgers.”

Unflinching, he stared at Abigail, refusing to speak.

“I can’t let you take these things, Caleb. I don’t have a lot left in this world, and even though most of it isn’t mine, I can’t let you have it.”

Larner stiffened.

“So I’m going to make you a deal.”

“You’re going to make me a deal?”

Abigail gulped air to get past the threat in his voice. “I’m not going to turn you in to the authorities on the mainland, and you’re going to let Nat Rhone go.”

He squinted at her in disbelief.

“I don’t care about what you stole or why. I’m not from here, but I want to stay. If that means I keep your secret, then you’ve got to do something for me.”

“I’m listening.”

“Ruth told you about Hank today. Did you believe her?”

Larner shrugged, loath to tip his hand.

“She has no reason to lie.”

“Nat does.”

Abigail looked at the pile Larner had amassed in the middle of the living room and said, “We all have reasons to