Chapter Fifty-Six
Fifty-six
The house looked much the same as it had on her last visit. Pots of herbs on the steps up to the door, terra-cotta tiles, a mosaic patio table with matching chairs.
Skye bent and lifted the edge of the doormat.
Andreas hadn’t been joking about leaving the key under there, though its presence likely meant he was not at home.
She knocked regardless, several times, pressing an ear to the wood and listening for any sign of movement.
There was nothing, the house quiet, white walls turned tangerine by the rising sun.
She had borrowed Victoria and Adam’s shiny truck, parked it by the port, and walked the rest of the way. The earthquake that had shaken the isle had wrought devastation in Karavostasis.
Areas where rocks had fallen were roped off, while a section of the narrow beach had been piled with splintered planks, broken pots, and damaged furniture. A few houses bore livid cracks, though all had remained standing. Save for one.
Skye had paused when she’d reached it, peered through into the mangled mess of masonry, shattered glass, and twists of wire.
Steel rods poked up at odd angles, and scalloped roof tiles sat dormant, still as a shoal of piranhas.
Her foot slipped on something half-buried beneath the remains of an interior wall.
A dog food bowl, flakes of dried-on meat stuck to its sides.
It looked as if a bomb had hit it.
She didn’t cry. There were no more tears. Skye had wept through the final letters until her skin had felt tight, her eyes raw. Now only numbness remained, a hollow space inside her, as if something had been emptied out.
The patio chair groaned as she sat.
Where was he?
Getting up again, Skye went down the steps and checked the beach for any sign of Andreas.
There was no one around, though strains of music drifted out from a nearby window.
She took out her phone and recorded a brief voice note for Sal, bringing her friend up to date, recalling with relish the expression on Martyn’s face when he realized the game was up.
Another six or seven weeks and Sal would be here.
She could not wait to show her the island, take her out in a boat and point out the caves, climb the winding pathway to the Church of Panagía, watch the birds swoop, and regale her with tales of Ottoman pirates, mythical treasures, and spiritual miracles.
Five more minutes, then she would try to call him.
Skye returned to her chair on the patio. From her bag, she retrieved the last letter. It was dated December 22, 1941, and the final few lines crushed her each time she read them.
History is erased by time, though the memory of what I did, what I had to do, will remain with me always. You told me I was strong, Stefanos. Why did you lie to me? I hate you. I need you. I love you. Kat.
When Skye looked up again, the first thing she saw was Andreas. There was a fishing rod in his hand, a tackle box dangling by its handle. At his ankle, a small, scraggly gray dog.
“You are here,” he said.
“I am here,” she agreed.
Andreas looked worn thin. His shoulders sagging, his clothes rumpled, fatigue pressed into every line of his face. Even his movements were slower, heavier. Though as he climbed the steps, he managed a faint, faltering smile.
“Is that Filiá?” Skye asked, crouching to stroke the dog.
“I collected her from the vet clinic late last night,” he confirmed. “No injuries, though she was traumatized after—” He fell quiet, gaze skittering away.
“I’m so sorry,” Skye said. “You both look as if you could use some sleep.”
“I could not sleep,” he said, holding up the rod. “So we fish, Filiá and me. Although I do not think she likes the boat very much.”
“I can go if you want,” she went on. “I only came to see if you were all right and”—Skye peered at him more closely—“are you all right?”
Andreas shrugged.
“I will be. After coffee. Will you stay?”
“Yes. Nai.”
He retrieved the key and pushed open the door.
Filiá trotted inside and began to make an inspection of the room, sniffing every item of furniture and testing the rug to make sure it could double as a scratch pad.
Andreas vanished into the kitchen, returning a few minutes later with small cups, one of which he held out to her.
“Let us sit outside.”
“I have so much to tell you,” Skye began, taking the seat beside him. Her hands were possessed. She fiddled with the hem of her dress, the strap of her bag, the ends of her hair.
Andreas sat down and began to unlace his boots.
“To tell me,” he echoed. “I know about the bones at the empty house. The police…it is a small station. I overheard them talking about it.”
“Why were you at the police station?” she asked.
Andreas tugged off a sock.
“To identify the body.”
“Oh,” she said, a coldness stealing through her. “That must’ve been awful.”
“I did not think it would be a problem, but”—he sighed—“when my brother drowned, my parents were too distraught to do what had to be done. I offered to do it, and when I was called to do the same thing again for Karolos, it was as if the years were swept away in a great whoosh. I lost the ability to breathe, to stand up. I was no help.”
Without thinking, Skye reached over and took his hand.
“I’m so sorry you had to go through that. I wish I could’ve been there with you.”
He stared at her, eyes unblinking.
“You were busy,” he said slowly, “with your husband.”
Skye removed her hand.
“He’s gone,” she said.
Andreas cleared his throat.
“Gone?”
“Away. Back to England. Out of my life for good. We’re getting divorced.”
He took a sip of his coffee but said nothing.
“I should’ve told you about him,” she went on, addressing the floor.
“I came here to escape from him. Our marriage was…Martyn had become abusive. I just thought if I could hide here, stay out of his way, then I could forget about all of it. But that was never going to happen. It was as if I had a huge, gaping wound in my side and was trying to go about my daily life as normal. I had to face him, confront him, but I wasn’t strong enough to do that in London.
Coming here, meeting you and all the others, that was what gave me the strength I needed. ”
“He abused you?” Andreas’s voice was ice cold. He muttered something in Greek. “I will not translate that,” he added. “It is very rude.”
“Whatever it is, I’ve probably thought it myself,” Skye told him.
“This, I think not. The Greeks are very creative when it comes to insults.”
“Well, I’m sure Martyn deserves it. He isn’t only a bully and a liar, he’s also a thief.
He left here believing that he’d get away with it, but my mother had other ideas.
She got in touch with Sky High—that’s the charter company Martyn works for—and told them everything we know.
His boss was furious, said he would suspend him with immediate effect and report the matter to the police in the UK.
I can’t imagine anyone will employ him to work as a pilot again.
That’s if he manages to avoid a prison sentence. ”
Andreas made a low whistle.
“That does not explain how you convinced him to leave you alone,” he said.
Skye rubbed her hands over her face.
“For you to understand that,” she said, “I’ll need to tell you a little story about a watch…”