There is one final detail to attend to. Limping a little, favoring his bad ankle, Galen climbs the stairs. Miranda’s room is as clean as a blown egg. An empty bureau. Nothing in the closets. He gropes beneath the bed, pushing aside boxes and dust bunnies, until his fingers locate a round object. As he suspected, Miranda left the stone behind. The blood has dried into paste, caked onto the granite. Standing there, he feels no sympathy, no sorrow. He rolls the sphere in his palm.
Then he strides down the hall. His room is filled with keepsakes. Over the past decade, he has accumulated a wealth of souvenirs. There is a bat wing, leathery and withered, pinned to the wall like the flag of a favorite sports team. Desiccated barnacles are lined up on the windowsill. A small wooden bowl holds shards of ceramic — the remains of a teacup flung in an argument, a testament to anger and violence. On the bureau, a jam jar brims with deceased beetles. A human rib bone, bleached and pitted by the sea, is wrapped in newspaper on the upper shelf of the closet. Throughout the years, Galen has amassed an array of feathers, pinning them to a length of twine that hangs above his window. They are arranged by size, from albatross to cormorant to sparrow. His paperweight is the skull of a dead seal pup. There is a drawer full of shark teeth. Galen casts his professional eye around the room.
His collection of seal stones sits in the corner, a bucket of moonlike orbs. Without ceremony, Galen drops Miranda’s stone into the pile. Camouflaged, gray against gray, it looks as innocent as anything. He dusts the dried blood off his hands. The murder weapon will fit in nicely among his mementos, surrounded by sand dollars, oyster shells, and bird bones. It will remain here forever, in his keeping.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
THANKS TO SCOTT and Milo, who are my home and heart. Thanks to my mother and father, who are nothing like the parents in any of my stories, because wonderful, loving families like mine just don’t make for good fiction. Thanks to Patsy, my dear friend and fairy godmother. Thanks to Laura Langlie, the best agent I could ever have asked for. Thanks to my editor, Dan Smetanka, the smartest person in the world. Thanks to all the brilliant and amazing folks at Counterpoint Press. Thanks to my splendid grandfather, my terrific and inimitable brother, and Bendix, my always friend. Thanks to Laurie, a light in dark places. Thanks to Gwynne Johnson, a lovely artist and fount of photographic insights. Thanks to Susan Casey, whose not-to-be-missed memoir, The Devil’s Teeth, allowed me to visit the Farallon Islands whenever I wanted. Thanks to my beloved Oklahoma family. Thanks to Keven and Steve, who are perfect in every way. Thanks to all the bright stars in my personal constellation. You know who you are.