THE DRIVE to the shore took just over an hour.
Bill Martin took a left turn on to a street named after some sort of tropical flower and cruised down it. Lavallette, like most Jersey Shore towns, was still cleaning up from Hurricane Sandy. There were empty lots where one-floor houses used to be. Garbage bags lined the curbs waiting for pickup. Damaged boats sat in driveways, waiting for repair.
Martin hoped his destination hadn’t been harmed. He hadn’t come this way in more than six years, not since Jeanne died. Couldn’t allow himself to. Jeanne had made her choice, choosing to go back to Donne rather than be with him. There was no reason to go to the funeral or contact her parents other than to send condolences. But now, with the news Donne had brought, seeing Jeanne’s parents was the first logical destination.
They deserved to know.
The road curved around away from the lagoon that cut through everyone’s backyards. In this area of the shore, people didn’t have lawns. They littered their front and backyards with stones. If the lagoon every crested, as it did with Sandy, the stones were supposed to be better somehow. Martin never cared to ask how.
He saw Jeanne’s parents’ home up ahead. It appeared to be in good shape. Being off the lagoon must have provided some form of security. He checked the clock on his dashboard. It was just before three, but he assumed they were home. The Bakers were long retired—both teachers—and collecting their pensions.
Good for them.
Martin parked across the street, turned the car off, and put both hands on the steering wheel. He hated that his hands had shook in front of Donne. And now the shakes were worse. He’d tried everything, giving up coffee and smoking. Eating better. More exercise.
His heart pounded hard and his breath was ragged. He closed his eyes and tensed his upper body, willing it to slow down. Once it did, he got out of the car before the tremors could start again. He crossed the street, crunched his way over the front yard rocks, and stepped onto the stoop. The doorbell played Big Ben’s theme.
Someone moved behind the door, and Martin’s heart rate picked up again. He put his hands behind his back and clenched them into fists. As the door opened, Martin focused on his breathing.
Leonard Baker stood in front of him, and the years hadn’t been kind. His once salt-and-pepper hair was completely gray. The crow’s feet that had been at the corner of his eyes now stretched out across his face.
“Bill Martin,” he said, his voice strong and full of bass.
“Hi, Leonard. Can I come in?”
“Is something wrong?”
Martin dug his nails into his palms. “We should talk.”
“Come in.” Leonard pushed open the door.
“Is your wife here?”
Leonard shook his head. “She’s out. Be back soon.”
Martin followed Leonard into the living room. The floors were tiled, with a throw rug resting under the coffee table. There were no pictures in the room, just displays of the shore, sea shells, bottles full of sand, and a craft sign that said ON THE BEACH, IT’S ALWAYS HAPPY HOUR.
Martin sat on the couch. Leonard took the loveseat across from him.
“How did you guys do during the storm?” Martin asked.
Leonard shrugged. “We’re still here.”
“No damage?”
“What’s going on, Bill?”
Martin leaned back on the couch. Coming here wasn’t a good idea. No matter what he said, he was going to hurt Leonard. He didn’t expect such an older man. He expected to deal with the strong man Leonard had once been. The one who accepted him when he and Jeanne started dating. And who, six years ago, told Donne to stay out of the Baker family’s life once and for all. No, Martin wasn’t really thinking when he hit the Parkway.
Martin said, “Jackson Donne came to see me.”
Leonard Baker’s cheeks fired up red, but he didn’t respond.
“He told me Jeanne’s still alive.”
Baker looked toward his front door. “That’s ridiculous.” The bass left his voice.
“He said he received an email with a link in it. When he clicked on the link—”
“Did he show you the email?”
Martin stopped for a moment. He studied Leonard and tried to pick up his body language. Leonard wasn’t looking at him, and his body went stiff in the chair. He kept staring at the front door.
“He said when he clicked on the link, Jeanne was on it. Bound and gagged.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“You’re her dad.”
Leonard tilted his head left, then—as if it was attached to a piece of elastic—snapped it straight back up again. “She’s dead. And Jackson is a drunk, drugged-up moron.” Leonard’s eye flicked upward. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. How can you listen to him?”
“He wasn’t drunk when I talked to him.”
“Do you believe him?”
Martin glanced toward where Leonard gazed. The clock. Ten after three. “Do you believe me?”
Leonard turned back toward Martin. The red in his cheeks had faded. “I believe Jackson Donne came to you and told you lies. I believe he is trying to hurt you, and now you’re here to hurt us.”
Martin said, “That’s not it. There was something to this. It felt legitimate.”
“You have to go.”
Martin flinched. “We need to talk more about this. If Jackson isn’t lying—”
“He is.”
Martin shook his head. “If he isn’t lying, we need to find Jeanne before someone hurts her.”
“You can’t hurt a dead person.”
“I don’t know if—”
Leonard stood up so fast, it was as if he leapt. “You have to leave. You have to go now. Get out of the house. Thank you for coming, Bill. Get out.”
Martin didn’t move. Leonard started to walk to the door. “Come on now.”
Martin stood up. “I wish you’d let me talk.”
Before he could take another step, Leonard froze in front of him. Martin heard the front door swing open. He looked toward it expecting to see Mrs. Baker. He did. She stood there, looking just as old as her husband. She covered her mouth with her hand.
By her side was a young boy, no older than five.
“Grandpa!” the boy said, and ran toward Leonard.
PART OF Bill Martin had always hoped she’d been lying. The day before she died, when she told him she was going back to Jackson Donne, Jeanne lied about being pregnant. It made things less painful, less horrible. He pushed it down, just like he pushed everything about Jeanne down. Hiding it away in the dark recesses of his memories.
But now, with the boy in front of him, one whose age lined up with what Jeanne said, it was impossible to deny.
The room tilted left and Martin dropped back on to the couch. He shook his head to clear his vision and looked up at the boy who was hugging Leonard Baker. Brown hair styled into a crewcut, a slight tan to