Her mother swallowed. Her voice was gentle, tired. “Okay. I trust you. Go.”
Jack pedaled hard past the old dairy and the power plant, the wind racing her thoughts down the road. It had only been a week, but she’d almost forgotten how much she loved the scent of the marina, the sweet blend of motor oil and salt rising toward her. One day, she’d have a boat that smelled like that. She didn’t think her mom would let her solo navigate around the world like some of the teenagers she followed on Instagram, but even a few nights on the open ocean, a trip down to Catalina or up to Seattle, would be magic. Freedom. Her sweatshirt billowed in the wind, and she let herself imagine for a moment the fabric was a sail.
When she crossed the bridge, she stopped daydreaming and focused on the big day ahead of her. She wasn’t going to get rattled. If the detective had questions, she’d show up with answers. She ran through where she’d been, what she’d been doing, who was there. As long as the conversation stayed focused on last weekend, she could handle it.
Jack flew into the marina, turning her wheels into a skid in the parking lot outside the Kayak Shack.
“Early today, Tiny,” Paul said, ambling toward her and rubbing a towel through his hair.
Jack shrugged.
“Well, it’s gonna be a weird one,” Paul said, “with the cops and all. Better get everything all buttoned up for the big show.”
Jack smiled. This, she could do.
*
Lana woke three hours later to the rattle of a pill bottle.
“Ma.” Beth was standing over her. “Time to get up. Chemo day.”
Lana rolled over and groaned.
“Let’s go,” Beth said. “Get dressed.”
Beth left the room, closing the door harder than she needed to. Lana pushed herself up and into the cashmere sweater, wide-legged slacks, and fleece infinity scarf she wore every third week for her chemotherapy treatment. This was not Stanford Hospital with its attractive doctors and orderlies dashing around. Chemo was five mind-numbing hours in a glorified hallway on the second floor of a strip mall, sitting in a cross between a BarcaLounger and a dentist’s chair getting poison pumped into her veins. The treatment room was freezing, and the knockoff boutique on the ground floor of the shopping center did a brisk business in wool jackets and fuzzy socks for the underprepared. Lana made sure her shoes were cute—today, black-and-white Italian leather booties—but other than that, she focused on staying warm.
Beth was silent on the drive. Each time Lana attempted to start a conversation, Beth turned up the radio. By the time they’d reached the clinic, the weatherman was practically shouting at them about the chance of rain.
Beth pulled in between the nail salon and the math tutoring center and idled.
“Aren’t you coming in?” Lana asked.
“Can’t,” Beth responded. “Too busy.”
Lana paused for a moment, considering whether to pout. She decided to go on the offensive instead. “So, it’s Jack’s big day back at the Kayak Shack?” She smiled at Beth.
Beth stared straight ahead, hands clamped to the steering wheel. “I’ll pick you up at four.”
Sensing the distinct possibility that her daughter was about to shove her out of the car, Lana picked up her purse, swung herself out of the passenger seat, and sashayed to the elevator. She didn’t look back.
*
Jack’s thorough examination of the boat locker left it in better shape than it had been in years. Eighty-five kayaks and seventeen paddleboards crack-free and accounted for. Sixty paddles standing at attention. Two hundred thirty-seven life jackets hanging on rods in long rows labeled by size. She still didn’t know why there was a double kayak in Mr. Rhoads’s barn, but it wasn’t part of the tour inventory. At least for today, it wasn’t worth worrying about.
She had a momentary hitch while inspecting kayak 33. As she adjusted the foot pegs, Jack remembered the ragged O the boy’s mouth had formed when he made his horrible discovery the Sunday before. But then she moved on to kayak 4, which was caked in muck for no good reason, and her attention shifted to hauling it outside and untangling the hose to spray it down.
By 8:45 a.m., the entire Kayak Shack shone with dingy pride. Two life-size stuffed otters flanked the entrance. A fresh logbook was out on the counter. Paul had even rustled up a collared polo shirt from somewhere deep in his office. When Detective Ramirez pulled up, he was outside, grinning like a golf caddie who cut his own hair.
Jack was wary when Teresa Ramirez emerged from her car. But the detective looked even less comfortable. She launched out of the Buick, propelled by an enormous pair of neon-green waders over a tight black turtleneck. She had cinched her sheriff’s duty belt around the outside of the fishing bib, causing the nylon to pool over her waist, revealing glimpses of radio, handcuffs, and holster as she squeaked her way toward the Shack. Her frosted hair was in a high, stiff braid, waterfalling away from the top of her head without making contact with her neck.