Chapter 4
Funnily enough, working on the Morse code cipher wasn’t as exciting alone. After Seb left, I moved some of the numbers around,
played with it, and even wondered if maybe I’d been wrong and all these dashes and dots on the certificate were merely distracted doodles of Wyrd Jack or his wife, or even someone else in the family who inherited the certificate after
Wyrd Jack died.
No way of knowing. Whatever we’d uncovered in this string of numbers, I couldn’t concentrate on it for long. I kept replaying
my conversation with Seb, trying to sort out all my old, wounded feelings about him. And the new feelings about why he chose
to crash at my place. If he truly did chase away robbers, then I supposed I should’ve been grateful. But I still couldn’t
fathom why anyone would choose to break in here.
What were they looking for? More gold bars? Or perhaps this very marriage certificate? If so, why didn’t they find it? They
certainly broke the frames of several other paintings. Maybe Seb scared them away before they could get their hands on it.
Would they come back?
I listened for strange sounds. Peered out blinds. But after the fear wore off, I realized how different life was out here.
Lake life in the summer was sweet and slow. Back in Cambridge, I stuck to a routine with precious little downtime.
Study. Class. Eat. Sleep.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
That routine kept me from falling apart after Nana died. A loop.
But now that I was out of that loop, mundane worries crowded my thoughts. Things like ordering new glass cut for the broken
window and buying some groceries. Finding out what was going on with Jazmine. Trying to get Nana’s old car running, which
hadn’t been cranked in almost a year. Washing the sheets on which Seb had been sleeping—and doing God knew what else . . .
And then there was the worst task on my to-do list: figuring out when and how I was going to approach a father I hadn’t talked
to in over a decade and convince him to help me keep my financial aid.
Considering everything that had just fallen into my lap, I could probably take a couple days to figure out how I was going
to approach him. Or even find him.
Even so, I spent a restless night thinking about both him and the day’s events. The Morse code cipher on the back of Wyrd
Jack’s wedding certificate. My interactions with Seb . . . But the next morning, my head was a little clearer, and I decided
the most pressing thing was tracking down Jazmine at her job.
After taking the hottest, most luxurious shower I’d had since moving into the freshman dorms at Harvard—thank God for good
water pressure—I brushed my damp hair into a ponytail, tugged on my favorite T-shirt, and went outside to unlock the old freestanding
garage that stood a couple yards from the cottage. At least it was intact, no signs of break-in. Nana never kept a spare key
to the cottage out here, but she did keep a spare to the garage. It was hidden in a bohemian collection of vintage aluminum signs that hung on the side of the garage. I nabbed the key that was tucked away behind an old Texaco sign and opened the garage.
My nana’s 1965 Danube-blue Chevy Corvair sat safely inside beneath its dustcover. After pulling the canvas off the car, I
unlocked it and slid into the front seat, bittersweetly savoring the musty scent of the interior that reminded me of Nana.
For a moment, I felt grief tugging me down into dark waters again but was able to pull myself back. Nana wouldn’t want me crying over a dumb car. Though, to be fair, it was a very pretty car, built right here in Michigan, and she’d taken good care of it.
And despite the model’s bad reputation—“Unsafe at Any Speed” was what it used to be called—it took me only four tries to crank.
“Still got it,” I told the Corvair, patting the hood while I gave it time to warm up.
Once I was fairly hopeful that I wouldn’t break down, after taking a quick test drive down the street, I headed into town,
past the marina and last night’s bonfire, and drove a couple miles to Haven’s main public beach, where Jazmine worked.
Jazmine had been a part-time paddleboard instructor since we were sixteen. Unlike me, who only futzed about on the board for
fun, she was a serious athlete who was a member of the International Surfing Association, ISA. Jaz dreamed of competing in
the Olympics, and I wouldn’t be surprised to see her there one day, if the Olympics committee could ever get around to adding
stand-up paddleboarding to their events. She’d gotten into University of Michigan in Ann Arbor—a great school, one of the
top ranked in the nation—but was taking a gap year before starting this upcoming fall.
After parking in one of the beach’s public lots, I walked past a few closed shops, too early to be open, and made my way down to the sand, where I spotted Jazmine’s first paddleboard class of the day doing warm-up exercises on the beach.
Bright sun glinted off the lake, dazzling me for a moment.
When I held up my hand to block the light, I spotted her.
Tall and brown-skinned, Jazmine Neely stood in the sand wearing a shirt that read Instructor in big letters. Red bikini strings peeked from under the shirt, along with more muscle than half the dock bros. Her natural
brown-and-dark-honey curls were pulled up into a high puffy ponytail, and much like her older sister, a galaxy of freckles
covered her nose and cheeks.
Her left arm was bound in an elastic bandage and cradled inside a black sling.
She’s hurt her arm . . . ?
“Hold up. There’s only eight of you,” she was telling the class. “Someone’s missing. Where’s Sheila? Did she get locked in
the changing room again? You kids are about to test my last nerve. Who knows something?”
Several children shrugged their shoulders in answer. One of the kids pointed in my direction.
Jazmine turned around, and her face lit up. She beamed at me before her smile faltered—just slightly, just for a moment. But
I caught it. What is going on?
“Paige!” she called out, running toward me. “Oh my God, look at you!”
Frustrations forgotten, I embraced Jazmine while trying to avoid the arm in the sling, inhaling the familiar scent of her
favorite sweet almond lotion. “Missed you so much.”
“Missed you more,” she said, pulling back to smile at me. “When did you get bangs?”
“Ugh, I cut them in a moment of weakness, don’t ask.”
“Why? I like them.”
Crazy that her approval made me feel a little better, but when she smiled at me, I smiled back. I gestured toward her arm.
“And when did you do that? What happened?”
“Sprained it,” she said, deflating a little as she held the arm against her body. “Was racing out at Harbor Point and my foot
slipped. Fell wrong, hit the board . . .” She shrugged.
“Racing? Who?”
She sighed heavily, lifting her warm face to the sun. “Fine. I wasn’t racing. It happened a couple mornings ago. I was hungover
at work after a long night of trying to outdrink Bill Chesney. I was showing off for those brats over there, trying to impress
them—which is impossible, just for the record. My ankle twisted, and I fell off the board.”
I winced. Now that did sound like her. Jazmine was highly competitive at anything physical, even partying. I flicked a look at the brown bandage
wrapped around her ankle, then leaned to the side to glance around her and found the kids staring back at us.
“Tough class this summer?”
“The absolute worst,” she whispered.
“So sorry, Jaz. Are you in pain?”
She shook her head, looking sheepish. “It aches, but nowhere near as a bad as it did when it happened. You know what the doc
told me? ‘Take some Tylenol.’ I nearly strangled him.”
“I’ll bet.” I smiled.
“Anyway, hopefully I’ll have to be in the sling for only a week or so. Then I’ll be able to get back on the board.”
I nodded encouragingly, then after a moment, dared to say, “So, hey. I really missed seeing you at the airport. Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, it’s fine. Just was in a little pain, and my boss called me in to talk about my performance, and I thought I was getting
fired—I’m really sorry, Paige. I know it was shitty, but I just couldn’t make the drive to Grand Rapids yesterday.”
“Oh God, of course. I wouldn’t expect you to drive all the way there with one arm . . .” It was just that . . . “Why didn’t
you just tell me?”
Her shoulders dropped. “I don’t know. I guess I was embarrassed. Silly, huh?”
“Ridiculously silly. I thought you were mad at me, or something.”
“Then I guess that explains those voice messages you left . . .”
“Sorry, Jaz. I was upset. I’d just flown in and found the cottage trashed, then I ran into Seb down the beach at a bonfire.”
Her eyes widened. “You saw Seb?”
I nodded. “Apparently he’s been crashing at the cottage. Did you know about this?”
She gritted her teeth and made a face. “I knew he was doing a little couch surfing lately, but I thought it was temporary—thought
he would’ve cleared out of the beach cottage by now. He mostly stays at Benny’s, I believe. I had no idea he was trashing the cottage, Paige. I swear.”
I nodded, scratching my nose. “Might’ve at least told me that he was back in town.”
“Hey. You told me if any of us mentioned his name ever again you’d poison them in their sleep, so I didn’t think you’d want to know.
He came back last fall, after . . .”
After Nana’s funeral. She didn’t have to say it.
“And apparently, he’s working for your dad at the marina? Seriously?”
“Oh. That? My parents feel sorry for him, that’s all. So, what was it like? Seeing him again after all that time?”
“Strange,” I admitted. “He really grew up, huh?”
“The glow-up of all glow-ups.”
“I mean, what the hell . . . ?”
Jazmine laughed. “Should’ve seen him last fall when he first came back. You wouldn’t have recognized him, all quiet and dead-eyed.
At least he looks a little more like himself now.” She sighed heavily. “God, I can’t believe he trashed your place.”