The Sky Beneath Her(45)

“But he never said ‘spy.’”

“He was very tight lipped about the war. As a lot of those guys who served were. We had an autistic child go missing in the 1980s. He offered his service to the local police. They knew of him, and everyone here respected him, so they let him listen in on the briefing. Took him a few hours, but he pieced together the evidence and found the child huddled in a shed. No one knew how he figured it out. Sometimes the sheriff’s office privately consulted with him on a few cases.”

“He looked so ordinary,” I said.

Doug winked. “The best spies do. But that man had a mind that never lost a fact. The police had nothing but respect for him.”

“He lived in Norfolk as well.”

“He did. He liked being close to an airport and still was on the move well into his early eighties. He spent his last years in Norfolk.”

“And he was on the Oceanus when it sank?” I asked.

“He was. But he never talked about it.”

I thought about the stack of yellowed manuscript pages I’d read. The people I’d read about so far had been well drawn, but they still felt so distant and removed. Maybe the book was an academic exercise, a way of remembering.

“How did he die?”

“He had a stroke while he was in Norfolk. He was here one day and gone the next. Just like he lived.”

“Anything else you can tell me about him?”

Doug seemed to think before he shook his head. “Not really.”

I thought about all the books, stacks of papers, and boxes. But Dr. Brooks remained a mystery. “Thanks, Doug.”

“Sure thing. Give me a shout-out if you find whatever he was working on. Good to have you back, Tula.”

“Thanks. Hey, if I had a house of furniture to sell, who would I reach out to?” I asked.

“Morrison’s Auction House. Ask for Sharon.”

“Thank you again.”

We left the rec center. In the front seat of Kaitlin’s van, I leaned my head back and closed my eyes. She slid behind the wheel.

Seven years had put a little distance between me and the wreck. “I wish I could have talked to Dr. Brooks. He might have been able to explain why Mom was so obsessed. She’d have ended any other dive when her oxygen was so low. But that day, she didn’t. It wasn’t like her.”

Humor flickered on the edges of Kaitlin’s lips. “You sound like your mom. She was always curious. Couldn’t leave a question unanswered.”

“I do not sound like Mom,” I groaned.

A shrug lifted her shoulders. “There’s a lot of your mom in you.”

“Hopefully all I’ll do is investigate, and I don’t end up so obsessed that I dive with little oxygen.”

“What about Nathan? Are you going to tell him about the book?”

I wasn’t ready to talk to him about the ship yet. “All I have is fifty pages. For all I know, this all goes nowhere.”





Chapter Fifteen


Tula





Thursday, June 11, 2026, 3:15 p.m.


I spent several hours at the Brooks house cleaning out the closets. All were organized but full of blankets, sheets, and more boxes of paper. The man hadn’t met a clipping, document, or bill he hadn’t loved and saved. I began organizing all the items in piles in the living room. Bedding in one heap. Paper in another. And books in another.

The bedding was older, worn but in good shape. All needed a good washing, and I wasn’t sure if I should line everything up in an assembly line near the washing machine. It would take days to clean it all. I checked my weather app and saw we had a 20 percent chance of rain this afternoon, and it was clear skies for the rest of the week. Washing and line drying commenced. I’d clean what I could and drape it over the clotheslines.

As the washing machine chugged with the first load, I shifted my attention to the boxes of paper. They were heavy, each packed to maximum capacity, and they weighed at least thirty pounds each. These items would also need to be sorted. Shredding and disposal would be the main objective. I knew enough about Dr. Brooks to know he wouldn’t want his papers shared. And then the books. So many books.

There were as many novels as there were nonfiction books, and the copyright dates spanned decades. A quick look, and I saw that some had copyright dates from the 1920s. I wasn’t sure who would want these books. Donation centers and libraries preferred novels, not discussions on geopolitics and war. Still, just tossing them didn’t feel right either. A tag sale would be the most profitable way to dispense of all these items, but I couldn’t imagine Dr. Brooks wanting people milling around in his house.

I called Morrison’s Auction House. I got a voicemail recording, and I left a message for Sharon to contact me.

My phone dinged with a text from Kaitlin. What are you doing?

Sorting. I scanned the piles around me. Less is definitely more in life.

Kaitlin: I hear ya. Want to meet for dinner? Surf camp ends at seven.

It was past six, and a peanut butter sandwich didn’t feel so appealing. Sure.

Kaitlin: Arthur’s. See you right after seven.

Me: Will do.

I walked to the bathroom, stripped, showered, and brushed my hair. And then, for whatever reason, I grabbed my mascara and lipstick and applied both. It wasn’t like Kaitlin had said Nathan was going to be at dinner. And I sure wasn’t expecting him, exactly. Still, it didn’t hurt to look presentable.