Page 57 of The Shape of Night

Any minute now, the power could go out.

I pick up the cellphone to check how much battery life is left, and whether it can last the night without charging. Only then do I see there’s a voicemail, and I remember the phone call I ignored when I was talking to the detectives.

I play the message and am startled to hear the voice of Ned Haskell.

Ava, you’ll probably be hearing things about me, things that aren’t true. None of it is true. I want you to know I haven’t done anything wrong. This isn’t over yet, not by a long shot. Not if I can help it.

I stare at my phone, wondering if I should tell the police about his call. Wondering too, if that would be a violation of his trust. Of all people, why am I the one he reached out to?

A bolt of lightning spears the sea. I back away from the window and feel the clap of answering thunder deep in my bones, as if my chest is a roaring kettledrum. Ned’s message unsettles me, and as the storm rages, I make one more round of the house, again checking windows and doors.

That night, I do not sleep well.

As lightning slashes the darkness and thunder rumbles, I lie awake in the same bed where a murdered woman slept. I think back to every interaction I ever had with Ned Haskell, and the memories play like a slideshow in my head. Ned on the widow’s walk, his arm muscles bulging as he swings the hammer. Ned grinning at me over the bowl of beef stew I’ve ladled out for him. I think of what goes into the toolbox of a carpenter, all the blades and vises and screwdrivers, and how items meant for shaping wood can so easily be put to other purposes.

Then I think of the art gallery reception and how Ned had smiled so sheepishly as he stood beside his whimsical bird carvings. How can someone who creates such charming art grasp a woman’s throat and squeeze the life out of her?

“Do not be afraid.”

I glance up, startled by the voice in the darkness. A flash of distant lightning illuminates the room and every detail of his face is instantly seared into my memory. Black curls as unruly as storm-tossed waves. A face of rough-hewn granite. But tonight I glimpse something new, something I did not see in the portrait of Captain Brodie that hangs in the historical society. Now I see weariness in his eyes, the weather-beaten fatigue of a man who has sailed too many oceans and now seeks only a calm harbor.

I reach up and touch days-old stubble on his jaw.So this was how Death found you,I think. Exhausted by hours at the helm, your ship battered by the sea, your crew swept away by waves. How I long to be the safe harbor he seeks, but I am a century and a half too late.

“Sleep soundly, dear Ava. Tonight I will stand watch.”

“I’ve missed you.”

He presses a kiss to my head and his breath is warm in my hair. The breath of the living. “When you need me most, here I am. Here I will always be.” He settles beside me on the bed and the mattress sags under his weight. How can this man not be real when I can feel his arms around me, his coat against my cheek?

“You’re different tonight,” I whisper. “So kind. So gentle.”

“I am whatever you need me to be.”

“But who areyou? Who is the real Captain Brodie?”

“Like all men, I am both good and bad. Cruel and kind.” He cups my face in a weatherworn hand that tonight offers only comfort, but it’s the same hand that has swung a whip and shackled my wrists.

“How will I know which man to expect?”

“Is that not what you desire, the unexpected?”

“Sometimes you scare me.”

“Because I take you to dangerous places. I offer you a glimpse of the darkness. I dare you to take the first step, and the next.” He strokes my face as gently as if he is stroking a child. “But not tonight.”

“What happens tonight?”

“Tonight you sleep. Be unafraid,” he whispers. “I will let no harm come to you.”

And that night I do sleep, safe in the circle of his arms.

Twenty-One

It’s the talk of the town the next afternoon. I first hear about it when I’m buying groceries at the Village Food Mart, a shop so small you have to use a handbasket to collect your items because no shopping cart will make it down the narrow aisles. I stand at the vegetable section, perusing the pitiful choices of lettuce (iceberg or romaine), tomatoes (beefsteak or cherry), and parsley (curly or nothing). Tucker Cove may be a summer paradise but it’s at the end of the grocery supply line, and since I missed shopping at yesterday’s weekly farmer’s market, I’m forced to take what I can get at the Food Mart. As I’m bending down to scavenge some red potatoes from the bin, I hear two women gossiping in the next aisle.

“…and the police showed up at his house with a search warrant, can you believe it? Nancy saw three police cars parked out in front.”

“Oh my god. You don’t really think he killed her?”

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