She drowned, Misty tells him. He has to listen. A week, three weeks ago, Misty doesn’t know. She’s not sure. She’s been locked in the attic. They put this big cast on her leg so she couldn’t escape.

Her legs under the plaid wool, they’re coated and running with blood.

By now the whole dining room’s watching. Listening.

“It’s a plot,” Misty says. With both hands, she reaches out to calm the spooked look on Stilton’s face. Misty says, “Ask Angel Delaporte. Something terrible is about to happen.”

The blood dried on her hands. Her blood. The blood from her legs soaking through her plaid skirt.

Tabbi’s skirt.

A voice says, “You’ve ruined it!”

Misty turns, and it’s Tabbi. In the dining room doorway, she’s wearing a frilly blouse and tailored black slacks. Her haircut pageboy short, she has an earring in one ear, the red enameled heart Misty saw Will Tupper rip out of his earlobe a hundred years ago.

Dr. Touchet says, “Misty, have you been drinking again?”

Tabbi says, “Mom ... my skirt.”

And Misty says, “You’re not dead.”

Detective Stilton dabs his mouth with his napkin. He says, “Well, that makes one person who’s not dead.”

Grace spoons sugar into her coffee. She pours milk and stirs it, saying, “So you really think it’s these OAFF people who committed the murder?”

“Killed Tabbi?” Misty says.

Tabbi comes to the table and leans against her grandmother’s chair. There’s some nicotine yellow between her fingers as she lifts a saucer, studying the painted border. It’s gold with a repeating wreath of dolphins and mermaids. Tabbi shows it to Grace and says, “Fitz and Floyd. The Sea Wreath pattern.”

She turns it over, reads the bottom, and smiles.

Grace smiles up at her, saying, “You’re getting so I can’t praise you enough, Tabitha.”

Just for the record, Misty wants to hug and kiss her kid. Misty wants to hug her and run to the car and drive straight to her mom’s trailer in Tecumseh Lake. Misty wants to wave good-bye with her middle finger to this whole fucking island of genteel lunatics.

Grace pats an empty chair next to her and says, “Misty, come sit down. You look distraught.”

Misty says, “Who did OAFF kill?”

The Ocean Alliance for Freedom. Who burned Peter’s graffiti in all the beach houses.

Your graffiti.

“That’s what I’m here about,” the detective says. He takes the notebook out of his inside jacket pocket. He flips it open on the table and gets his pen ready to write. Looking at Misty, he says, “If you wouldn’t mind answering a few questions?”

About Peter’s vandalism?

“Angel Delaporte was murdered last night,” he says. “It could be a burglary, but we’re not ruling anything out. All’s we know is he was stabbed to death in his sleep.”

In her bed.

Our bed.

Tabbi’s dead, then she’s alive. The last time Misty saw her kid, Tabbi was on this very table, under a sheet and not breathing. Misty’s knee is broken, then it’s fine. One day

Misty can paint, and then she can’t. Maybe Angel Delaporte was her husband’s boyfriend, but now he’s dead.

Your boyfriend.

Tabbi takes her mother’s hand. She leads Misty to the empty seat. She pulls out the chair, and Misty sits.

“Before we start ...” Grace says. She leans across the table to tap Detective Stilton on his shirt cuff, and she says, “Misty’s art show opens three days from now, and we’re counting on you being there.”

My paintings. They’re here somewhere.

Tabbi smiles up at Misty, and slips a hand into her grandmother’s hand. The peridot ring, sparkling green against the white linen tablecloth.

Grace’s eyes flicker toward Misty, and she winces like someone walking into a spiderweb, her chin tucked and her hands touching the air. Grace says, “So much has been unpleasant on the island lately.” She inhales, her pearls rising, then sighs and says, “I’m hoping the art show will give us all a fresh start.”

August 24 ... and One-Half

IN AN ATTIC BATHROOM, Grace runs water into the tub, then goes out to wait in the hallway. Tabbi stays in the room to watch Misty. To guard her own mother.

Just for the record, just this summer, it feels as if years have gone by. Years and years. The girl Misty saw from her window, flirting. This girl, she could be a stranger with yellow fingers.

Misty says, “You really shouldn’t smoke. Even if you’re already dead.” What they don’t teach you in art school is how to react when you find out your only child has connived to break your heart. For now, with just Tabbi and her mother in the bathroom, maybe it’s a daughter’s job to piss off her mother.

Tabbi looks at her face in the bathroom mirror. She licks her index finger and uses it to fix the edge of her lipstick. Not looking at Misty, she says, “You might be more careful, Mother. We don’t need you anymore.”

She picks a cigarette out of a pack from her pocket. Right in front of Misty, she flicks a lighter and takes a puff.