“Sad what happened that night. I remember it plain as day,” the first man said.

I snapped my head in his direction. “My mother’s accident? You saw it?”

“It was no accident. She drove straight into that quarry like she wanted to die.”

“You were there?” I tensed with interest.

He shifted in his chair. “Heard all about it. Later. Couple days later.”

I let out my breath. I should have known he was exaggerating.

“But,” he said, “I was at the bar that night and I saw her arguing with Jake before she killed herself over it.”

I walked to their table and grabbed a vacant chair. “You saw my mom arguing with my dad?”

“Yep. Then she went and drove straight into that quarry.”

I leaned close enough to smell the absence of deodorant. “Start from the beginning.”

Sam walked up and topped off their coffees. “Here you go. Hot and fresh.” She lifted the decanter and looked at me. “Ready to start your training, girl?”

I shook my head, not wanting to pass up an opportunity to investigate my mom’s death. “Not today. But I’ll take a cup of coffee, if you don’t mind.”

She gave a big sigh and twirled away.

I gazed into my informant’s slightly bloodshot and red-rimmed eyes. “Okay, go.”

He looked across the table at his friend. “We got to the Watering Hole around seven that night. There was a big shutdown going on at the paper mill, and we headed to the bar as soon as our shift ended. I was surprised to see Jake there. He’d pretty much quit hanging at the bars around the time he went clean. But there he was, sitting in that corner by the john. Anyway, your ma sits at the table with him. They look all lovey-dovey for a while, but pretty soon she stands up and starts yelling at him, then walks out. He tries following her, but takes one look toward the door and hightails it the other direction.”

“Why? What was by the door?”

“The grim reaper, I guess.” A smile flicked across his face and was gone. “I imagine he saw a couple buddies from his drug-dealing days. Probably going to set him straight for turning in that trucking guy. But before they could get a hold of him, Jake makes it out the back door and no one’s seen him since. Beth made it about five minutes down the road before she called it quits on life.”

A cup of coffee dropped in front of me, almost spilling. “Anything else for you, Tish?”

I looked up at Sam, somehow seeing only Mead Quarry and my mom’s Ford in an endless spiral above it. “No, thanks.”

The men slurped their coffee and ate their fries, silent out of respect for the dead, or because they could tell I was going to start crying any second. The scenes ran over and over in my mind. Everything my grandfather had told me combined with what these guys had said, coming together to form a movie—a poorly written and directed film that left the faces of my father and the thugs at the door blurred and unrecognizable. Even the soundtrack was damaged. Nothing could turn up the volume so I could hear the words that made my mother end her life.

I composed myself and looked at the redheaded guy. “You mentioned something about my dad turning someone in. What’s that all about?” I didn’t want to waste the opportunity to soak them for information.

“Majestic. Frank Majestic. He owns a trucking line other side of Escanaba. Went to prison for a few years after Jake squealed on him,” Burly Man Number One said.

“Squealed on him for what?” I asked.

“Drug running. He arranged shipments of drugs along with regular payloads in and out of the U.P. Don’t know the details. It was in the papers.”

I thought about the Witness Protection Program my grandfather and I had discussed and wondered why my father hadn’t been part of it. Frank Majestic sounded like a pretty big player. I pictured life under the protection program. Me and my mom and dad could have lived together in peace and security. Somewhere tropical. Like that little island in Fiji. It would have been a different existence for me. A world of love and laughter, palm trees and coconuts. My mom would have been a photographer for National Geographic and my dad would have owned a sugar cane plantation and I would have been their little princess and the native children would have come over for lemonade . . .

The scrape of chairs on the tile floor snapped me out of my daydream. “Where are you going? Hey, I didn’t even get your names.”

“Homer Johnson,” the first guy said. “And that’s Cody Baker. Sorry about your mom. She was a good lady.”

He flipped cash on the table to pay the bill, and they left me alone, crying in my coffee.

29

Sam found me with my head buried in my arms at the table.

“Hey, it’s going to be all right,” she said, rubbing slow circles on my back. “You don’t have to know what happened to your mom to know that God is taking good care of her.”

I shrugged her arm away. “I don’t think she even knew about Jesus. She’s probably rotting in hell.” How many times had Grandma Amble lamented the fact that she’d never brought my mother to church as a child?

“No, no.” Samantha’s lulling voice tried to draw me from the dregs of self-pity. “Your mom was a special lady. God loved her very much.” Sam came close and hugged me.

I brushed off her touch and stood. I didn’t want comfort. I wanted a time machine with the dial set for May 6, twenty-six years ago.

I threw down some money to pay for my coffee, stormed off to my Explorer, and headed north toward home. I wished I could believe what Samantha said about God taking care of my mother. I always liked to imagine Mom with the angels in heaven. But that was just a coping mechanism, my own protective denial.

I held back the tears. Unless, like Puppa said, I had smoke in my eyes. Was there a chance my mother had somehow accepted God’s love, even in an airborne Ford?

I slowed for the turn down my driveway. A rusty white Suburban was just pulling out. I stared at the driver, taking notes on the curly brown hair and handsome GQ face. Our eyes met as we drove past one another. I angled down the two-track, squinting to see his license plate as he headed toward Port Silvan.

HOT1. Easy enough to remember. Hopefully, the driver was a friend of Joel’s just checking in. But there was the chance he was one of Drake’s buddies. I stepped on the gas, afraid of what I’d find at home.

I slid to a stop, threw the car in park, and headed inside.

“Missy? Joel? Anybody here?”

Before I panicked at the silence, I looked out toward the lake. Relief flooded over me. They were building sand castles at the shore, the four of them. The guy in the Suburban could have been a tourist checking out the area. No need for alarm.

I packed a basket full of lunch goodies and joined the gang at the beach. We were still playing in the sand when Samantha showed up midafternoon. She came down to the water’s edge, ignoring my wave.

She gave the group a terse hello. “Can I talk to you a minute, Tish?” The tone of her voice made me want to run the opposite direction.

“Sure.”

We walked back toward the lodge in silence. Once out of sight of our friends, she lit into me.

“You are the most immature person I know. What are you thinking messing with my stuff just because we had a disagreement this morning? I don’t feel safe with you tampering in my bedroom behind my back. I’m sure Missy wouldn’t feel safe either after what you did. I won’t tell her this time, but please don’t ever do it again.”

My arms flapped and my fingers pointed as I tried to defend myself without words. Finally, my mouth kicked in. “What are you talking about? I haven’t gone in your room since I got the upstairs bathroom cleaned up three days ago. Believe me, your stuff is safe from me.” I had no use for lava lamps and butterfly wall art.

“Then how do you explain this?” She stomped to her room and threw open the door.

I cringed at the mess in my mother’s old room. Mom had always kept things so tidy. Now, there were clothes strewn in piles on the floor in front of the dresser. The bed was stripped and the blankets, sheets, and comforter scattered all over the tile.

I took a cautious step toward the bathroom. Powder covered every surface as if Sam had doused her whole body, then shook off like a dog.

“Geez, Sam. Maybe you should hire a housekeeper.” I tried diffusing the situation with a little humor.

“Very funny.” She crossed her arms. “You did it. You get to clean it up. And don’t ever come in here again, or I’m leaving.”

Her offer sounded too good to be true, but I refrained from saying so. “Look, Sam. You know I wouldn’t have done something like this. It’s my house. And my mother’s old room.”

She looked me over. “You seriously didn’t make this mess?”

I shook my head. “Why would I? It wouldn’t make sense.”

“Do you think Hannah might have done it?” Her voice took on an edge of unease.

Our eyes met. I could tell Hannah wasn’t really on her list of suspects. My mind refused to follow her path of reasoning. “Let’s talk to Missy before we jump to conclusions. Maybe Hannah got out of sight for a few minutes.”

“Look at this, Tish.” She pointed at a footprint made of powder just outside the bathroom door. “That looks like a man’s shoe. You don’t think Joel was in here?”

A creepy feeling crawled across my neck. I pictured the vehicle pulling out of my driveway. Unless the driver was one of Drake Belmont’s minions, there was only one other possible explanation. Could Mr. GQ be Sam’s ex-husband? “Ummm, there was a white Suburban leaving just as I was coming home. You don’t think . . .”

Sam drew in a sharp breath. Her face took on a look of panic. “Heaven forbid . . .”

“What? What are you thinking?” I grabbed her arm.

“Nothing. Never mind.” She gave a big, fake yawn. “I think I’ll take a nap and worry about this later. Sorry to bug you.”

She pushed me out the door and closed it with a bang.

I hovered. From beyond the door came the tones of a cell phone dialing. There was no napping going on in there. That probably meant my suspicions were right.

I stuck my ear to the pine. Sam’s voice came low and muffled. I strained to hear the details of her call, feeling only slightly guilty for eavesdropping after she’d falsely accused me of vandalism. Her voice moved back and forth between the bathroom and the dresser. My stomach churned up an extra dose of acid. Sam was generally pleasant and perky. It had been easy to forget she’d been the victim of violence. Now, the worst had happened. Her jerk of an ex barged in and resumed his crippling power over her—just when we needed to focus our attention on keeping Missy and her kids safe.

I shuffled to the kitchen, despondent at the turn of events. The stool and countertop provided moral support while I mulled the situation.

Sometime later, Joel came in to start supper.

“Where’s Samantha? I haven’t seen her all afternoon.”

Joel didn’t know I’d already had one exile in residence before I took on the latest family of refugees. I steeled myself for a strong reaction, then told him of the day’s incident and described the vehicle, right down to the boastful license plate.

His brows scrunched. “Papa B suspected as much.” He hammered some numbers into his cell phone. “I’ll call and get the owner’s name. That should solve our mystery.”

While he contacted the state police post, I finished cutting up the salad. Then, going to Sam’s room, I gave a hesitant tap on her door. “Hey, supper’s ready. Are you eating?”

“No.” The word held the defiance of a teenager.

“Come on, Sam. You can’t stay in there forever.”

Bumping. Thumping. Scraping. Slamming.

“Come and eat. You’ll feel better,” I said.

The door opened. Sam’s shirt hung out of her waistband. Her face was swollen. She looked like she’d been dragged behind a four-wheeler.

She gave a slurpy sniffle. “I can’t eat right now. I’m packing.”

I looked past her into the room. Boxes were strewn everywhere. The lava lamp was gone. So was the yellow rug. Even the comforter had disappeared.

Rage—and a good dose of fear—built in my chest. “What do you think you’re doing? If you leave now, it would be like letting your ex control you all over again. And remember, saving Melissa was your idea. You are not ditching me.”

She picked a sweatshirt off the floor, folded it, and tucked it in a box. She bent for a blouse.