Page 25 of The Shape of Night

“But it was just an accident. It’s the only tragedy I know of.”

Her gaze drifts to the kitchen window, where multicolored crystals dangle. Quietly she says, “If there were others, that would make me wonder.”

“About what?”

She looks at me. “If your problem is actually a ghost.”

—

It is already late afternoon when I start my drive back to Tucker Cove. Along the way I stop at a diner to eat dinner and to mull over what Maeve told me:I can help you. There are ways to make the phenomena cease.Ways to make Captain Brodie vanish forever. But that’s not what I want; I knew that even before I spoke with her. What I wanted was simply to be believed. I wanted to know that what I saw and felt in Brodie’s Watch was real. No, I’m not afraid of Captain Brodie’s ghost.

What terrifies me is the possibility that he doesn’t exist and I’m going insane.

As I wait for my order of fried chicken, I scroll through the messages on my phone. I had muted it during my meeting with Maeve and now I see several new voice mails. The first is from my editor, Simon, who’s called again about the status of my overdue manuscript.The chapters you’ve sent me are terrific! When can I see more? Also, we need to talk about a new release date.

I’ll email him tomorrow. At least I can report this much: the book is still going well. (And my carpenters are gaining weight.) I scroll through the next two voicemails, both from spam callers, and come to a familiar number.

At 1:23P.M., Lucy called.

I don’t listen to her message; I can’t bring myself to hear her voice.

Instead I focus on my meal, which has just arrived. The fried chicken is dry and stringy and the mashed potatoes taste like they came out of a box. Even though I missed lunch I have no appetite, but I force myself to eat. I won’t think about Lucy or Simon or the book I need to finish. No, I’ll think instead about the ghost, which has become a welcome distraction. Maeve assures me that other people, sane people, see ghosts. I can certainly use a ghost’s company and the house is more than big enough for us to share. What lonely womanwouldn’twant to share her bed with a strapping sea captain?

Where have you been, Captain Brodie? Will I see you tonight?

I pay for my barely eaten meal and get back on the road.

By the time I arrive home, night has fallen. It’s so dark I have to feel my way up the porch steps, and when I reach the front door I halt, every nerve humming. Even in the gloom, I can see the door is ajar.

Today is Friday so Billy and Ned would have been working in the house, but they would never leave the door unlocked. I think of everyone else who might have a key to the front door: Donna Branca. Arthur Sherbrooke. The tenant who lived here just before me. Did Charlotte forget to return her key when she left? Has someone else gotten hold of it?

A loud meow issues from inside the house and Hannibal pushes his head out to greet me. My clever coon cat has been known to twist knobs and push open doors and he looks utterly unperturbed. Since he’s not alarmed, surely everything must be fine inside.

I give the door a gentle push and it gives an alarmingly loud squeal as it swings open. I flip on the light switch and I see nothing amiss in the foyer. Hannibal sits at my feet, tail twitching, meowing for his dinner. Maybe Ned did forget to lock the door. Maybe Hannibal managed to open it.

Maybe the ghost did it.

I follow Hannibal into the kitchen and flip on the light. He crosses straight to the cabinet where he knows the cat food is stored, but I’m no longer looking at him. I’m focused instead on a clump of dirt on the floor.

And the shoeprint.

I spot another print, and another, and I follow the trail backward to its origin: the kitchen window, gaping open.

Ten

The police search every room, every closet of my house. Bythe police,I mean Officer Quinn and Officer Tarr. The Hare and the Tortoise is what first came to mind when I watched them step out of their patrol car, the younger Quinn springing out of the passenger seat like a rabbit while fiftyish Officer Tarr slowly oozed his way out of the driver’s seat. With indolent Tarr at the wheel, no wonder they had taken forty-five minutes to respond to my 911 call.

But respond they finally did, and they approach this break-in with all the gravity of a murder investigation. They accompany me upstairs to the bedrooms, Officer Quinn taking the steps at a quick hop while Tarr lumbers behind him, and I confirm that nothing seems to be missing or out of place. While Tarr painstakingly writes in his notebook, Quinn searches the closets, then dashes up to the turret to confirm the intruder is not lurking upstairs.

Back downstairs in the kitchen, they take a closer look at the shoeprints, which are too large to be mine. Then Tarr turns his attention to the open window, the obvious point of entry.

“Was this window open like this when you left the house?” he asks me.

“I’m not sure. I know I had it open this morning, while I was cooking breakfast.” I pause, unable to remember whether I’d closed it without latching it. Lately I’ve been so distracted, by the book, by the ghost, that details Ishouldremember have been slipping past me.Like where I got those bruises.

“Have you seen anyone hanging around here lately? Anyone suspicious?”

“No. I mean, there are two carpenters who’ve been working on the house, but I wouldn’t call them suspicious.”

---