“Why?”
“Because you’re the only one with a reason to come looking,” she said. “She figured you’d hear he was gone, take your bag, and leave Merrow Falls for good. No fight over the house. No questions about the money.”
I turned the brass key over in my fingers. LOT 31.
“What does this open?”
“I don’t know. Walt gave it to me in an envelope with your name on it. All he said was, ‘If Grady gets out and I can’t talk, give him this.'”
“Can’t talk,” I repeated.
Ruthie nodded slowly.
“The stroke took most of his speech. And his right side.”
I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes until I saw sparks.
“I need to see him.”
“I know, honey. That’s why my niece works the overnight shift.”
I spent what was left of the night on a cot at Gable Street Recovery House. My parole officer, Marisol Vance, had left a message.
“Mrs. Holcomb says you can’t stay at the address on your release plan. You have seventy-two hours to give me an approved residence, Mr. Holcomb, or we have a problem.”
At six the next morning, Ruthie drove me to Larkspur House in Danbury Hollow.
Her niece Tamsin met us at the loading dock in purple scrubs. She was maybe twenty-three, with a nervous smile and a lanyard full of keys.
“Shift change is in eight minutes,” she said. “That’s all I can give you. If anybody asks, you’re my cousin.”
She led us down a hallway that smelled like bleach and canned peaches.
“Lorraine checked him in under Walter Hale,” Tamsin whispered. “Family request. Privacy. She’s the only approved visitor.”
She stopped outside Room 14.
“He knows more than people think,” she said. “Talk to him like he’s still in there. Because he is.”
The room was narrow and too warm.
My father sat propped up in bed by the window. He’d lost forty pounds. His hair had gone from gray to white. The right side of his face hung slack, like someone had let go of a string.
But his left eye found me the second I walked in.
And it filled.
“Dad.”
His left hand lifted off the blanket. It shook so hard the bed rail rattled.
I took it.
His grip was weak, but he didn’t let go.
“Hey,” I said. My voice cracked down the middle. “Hey. I’m here. I’m out.”
His mouth worked. A sound came out, rough and broken. It wasn’t a word. It was trying to be one.
“It’s okay. Take your time.”
He squeezed my hand. Twice.
I held up the brass key.
“Ruthie gave me this. Lot 31. What is it?”
His eye locked onto the tag. His jaw strained.
“W—” He swallowed. “Wuh. Wind.”
“Wind?”
His fingers tapped the bed rail. Slowly. Then he curled them around it, like he was tying off a line.
Like a cleat.
And I knew.
“The Second Wind,” I said. “Your boat. Slip 31 at Pruitt’s Landing.”
A tear slid down the good side of his face.
The door swung open.
A woman in a navy blazer stood there with a security guard behind her. Her name tag read DIRECTOR – C. ASHBY.
“Mr. Holcomb,” she said, “Mrs. Holcomb has a protective order on file naming you as a threat to this resident.”
Her eyes moved to the phone in her hand.
“She’s on her way. And so is the sheriff.”
Chapter 3: Slip 31
My father wouldn’t let go of my hand.
The guard stepped forward. Dad’s grip tightened, his whole arm trembling with the effort.
“Sir,” the guard said. “You need to come with me.”
“Give me ten seconds.”
Director Ashby folded her arms.
