“What’s going on?” Arthur asked, wondering if these agents might divulge a little more information than Jessica Winslow had.

  “Don’t know exactly, bud,” the man with the beard said, and Arthur recoiled a little at being called “bud.”

  The younger agent, the one who looked a little like Jimmy Smits back when he was on NYPD Blue, was sliding the two pieces of the letter into separate plastic bags. “That’s all we needed from you, sir,” he said, and Arthur walked them to the door, conscious, as he always was with new people, of his limp.

  He watched them drive away through the frosted glass of the front door window, then wandered back into the interior of the house. There was the sound of a very distant thunder crack, and he told himself he should get back to work. Instead, he sat down on one of the dining room T-back chairs, and wondered what the list was all about, and why the FBI had become interested. Was Agent Winslow keeping something from him? It seemed probable.

  He rubbed at the depleted muscles of his left thigh. He’d always felt that his leg was at its worst when the weather was bad. Or maybe he was just imagining it? The windows were suddenly dark, and he waited to hear the sound of rain on the roof. He should head back to work, but he kept thinking about how much he wanted to tell Richard about the recent details of his life—the list he’d gotten in the mail, the phone call from the FBI, and, now, the two agents who came to take possession of the letter. He allowed himself the rare luxury of imagining the conversation, Richard wanting to know details—always wanting to know details—like what did the agents look like. He’d tell him about Jimmy Smits, and the man with the beard that had been shaved along his jawline. A George Lucas? Richard would say, laughing. Exactly, Arthur would say back. I hadn’t thought of that.

  He allowed himself a few more minutes of this reverie, even letting Misty back into the picture, the way she’d lean up against one of their legs when they were talking, always looking for affection. He stopped thinking these thoughts when his throat began to ache. He needed to get back to work. It was raining now, but he didn’t much care as he walked at his usual slow pace back to his car.

  5

  FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 16, 6:00 P.M.

  By six o’clock on that Friday night, Jessica had managed to positively identify a total of four people who had all received the list, not including herself or Frank Hopkins. Ethan Dart and Arthur Kruse, maybe because their names were the most unusual, had come relatively easily. Jessica had gotten in touch with several women named Caroline Geddes, all baffled by the question of whether they’d gotten a mysterious list in the mail, before she hit the jackpot with a University of Michigan professor. As she had done with Ethan and Arthur, Jessica called the nearest bureau and had them send someone out to retrieve the letter and envelope. She’d also gotten a positive hit with a Matthew Beaumont, despite the commonness of that name, after only about four or five dead ends. For some reason, as soon as she heard his voice when he answered the phone, she knew that the Matthew Beaumont who was the vice president of a financial company in Boston was the one. Why was that? She’d reached him at his office phone just before he was set to leave, and he agreed to meet with an agent. She asked the usual questions—he told her that none of the names had meant anything to him—then asked him his age, partly because he sounded young to be a vice president.

  “I’m thirty-nine,” he said.

  “Oh, that’s my age,” Jessica said, before catching herself.

  After hanging up she wondered what the ages of Ethan Dart and Caroline Geddes were. Arthur Kruse had told her he was forty-five. Ethan and Caroline sounded as though they were in their late thirties, early forties, as well. But what about Frank Hopkins. He’d been seventy-two.

  She looked at the names for the hundredth time, trying to see if the ones she’d so far been unable to find gave her any other possible clues as to their age. Jay Coates could be any age, could easily be in his mid-thirties or in his seventies. Jay had been a popular name for a while. Jack Radebaugh sounded like the name of a slightly older man, but maybe she was just thinking that because the most famous Jack Radebaugh was a seventy-year-old business guru. But she’d talked with him already and he hadn’t received the letter.

  The last person she couldn’t find was Alison Horne, and that was another name that could belong to someone of any age, but it was also such a common name that finding the right Alison Horne might prove to be very difficult.

  Wanting to find out more about Frank Hopkins, she decided to call the Kennewick Police Department.

  After identifying herself as an FBI agent, she asked to speak to whoever was in charge of the Frank Hopkins homicide.

  “That’s gone to state, honey,” the receptionist said. “But Detective Hamilton’s still here. He was at the scene of the crime if that’s helpful to you.”

  “That’d be great.”

  After about thirty seconds, the detective came on the line and introduced himself.

  “Detective, this is Agent Winslow of the Federal Bureau out of Albany. Do you have a minute?”

  “Your first name isn’t Jessica, is it?”

  “It is. You’ve seen the list.”

  “Oh. To tell the truth I was kind of half-joking. Was that actually your name on the list?”

  “Yep. I received an identical letter to the one that was found near Frank Hopkins this morning. That’s being kept under wraps for now, though.”

  “What is?”

  “The existence of the letter, and the list.”

  “Oh, right, I heard that,” the detective said. “So what’s it all about? Do you know the other people on the list?”

  “None of them. And we’ve tracked down a few of the others. No connection, at least not that we’ve figured.”

  “It’s very strange, the whole thing,” Detective Hamilton said.

  “It’s even stranger when your name is on it.”

  “I imagine it is.”

  “So what can you tell me about Frank Hopkins?”

  “He’d lived up here in Kennewick his whole life. Married twice, no kids. He’d taken over a family-run resort that his parents had started called the Windward Resort.”

  “That’s in Kennewick, too?” Jessica asked. Something about that name had seemed just a little bit familiar.

  “On Kennewick Beach, yeah. It used to be kind of fancy way back when. The type of place that families would come to for a month at a time. All the meals included, organized shuffleboard, martinis on the veranda. But it’s pretty down at the heels now. I think Frank kept it operating just so he’d have a bar to drink at while pretending he was running a business.”

  “He was an alcoholic?”

  “I guess so. A functioning alcoholic like half the people I know. He never caused any trouble, though. Most people seemed to like him.”

  “Including you?”

  “Sure, including me. I’ve been known to have an occasional Friday night drink at the Windward and Frank was always friendly.”

  “You were at the crime scene?”

  “I was. I didn’t get too close, but it was clear that it was a crime scene. Well, not clear, but for whatever reason I didn’t think it was a natural death. It looked like someone had pushed his head pretty hard into the sand.”

  “I thought he was in a tide pool.”

  “It was a tide pool when he died, but the tide was going out.”

  “Right. And he had the envelope and list with him?”

  “He was holding both of them, sort of crumpled up in his hand. The envelope didn’t have a stamp on it.”

  “Okay, I hadn’t heard that.”

  “You’ll find out more if you talk with the State Police. The detective heading the investigation is named Mary Parkinson. She’ll be helpful.”

  “I’ll call her.”

  “So how many of the people on the list have you found?” the detective asked.

  “Everyone but Jack Radebaugh, Alison Horne, and Jay Coates.”

  “Oh, really. That was fast. Anyone know anything?”

  “Like I said, far as I know we’re all strangers. Nothing in common except for the list.”

  “Well, you do have something in common then.”

  “Right. I suppose we do,” Jessica said.

  “There’s a Jay Coates who’s an actor in Hollywood. He has a website.”

  “Oh, you’ve been looking into it, too?”

  “A little bit. I had some free time today, so I thought I’d google the names, see what came up.”

  “I did leave a message for Jay Coates the actor,” Jessica said, “but haven’t heard back. It’s earlier in California so you never know. He might be at work.”

  “You think it’s him?”

  “Yeah, I do, but I don’t know why. It’s partly his age. So far everyone I’ve identified seems to be in their late thirties.”

  “Except for Frank Hopkins.”

  “Yes, except for Frank Hopkins.”

  Detective Hamilton said, “What about Jack Radebaugh. No luck on him yet?”

  “No luck. Did you google him, as well?”

  “I did. There weren’t many. The big name was a kind of famous writer.”

  “I talked with him. He didn’t get the letter in the mail, and he didn’t know anyone else who was on the list.”

  “How old was he?”

  “He’s seventy.”

  There was a slight pause, and Jessica added, “If you think of anything else I should know about Hopkins, you’ll call me?”

  “Sure. Let me get your numbers.”

  After exchanging office and cell numbers they each hung up, Jessica sitting quietly for a moment, trying to dislodge whatever memory she had of the Windward Resort from her mind. It had rung a bell. A distant, distant bell.

  She’d been to the southern coast of Maine at least twice in her life, but as far as she knew, she’d never been to Kennewick. She’d been to Camden for a very rainy Memorial Day weekend with Justin, her previous boyfriend. That was about three years ago. Prior to that she’d gone on a family vacation when she was thirteen years old—she remembered it because it was the first family summer vacation she’d gone on during which she wanted to be back home, hanging with friends. Her mom had rented a house in Kennebunkport that had been a disappointment. It was near a beach, but the beach was rocky, the water ice cold even in August. She remembered their driving up and down the coast to visit shops and ice cream parlors in other small towns. And she remembered that her dad had been in a particularly mean-spirited mood while they’d been there. She only really remembered that because her mother had blown up one night at dinner and said that she was sick of living with two selfish teenagers. Had they visited Kennewick on that trip? She couldn’t remember.

  “Go home,” Aaron said from the doorway.

  Jessica turned in a daze to him. “I will. I want to make just one more call.”

  “Okay. Then I’m coming with you. I’m your escort.”

  “You’re kidding me?”

  “I’m not kidding. If you don’t want it to be me, then I’ll get someone else, but until I find out exactly what’s going on, I don’t want to take any chances.”

  “Okay, fine,” Jessica said. “I’ll come get you in five.”

  After Aaron left, she tried to call Jay Coates, the one in California, one more time. He didn’t pick up, and she considered leaving a message, one a little more urgent than the one she’d left before, but decided against it. It probably wasn’t him, anyway, and why scare him if it wasn’t necessary.

  6

  FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 16, 6:14 P.M.

  Matthew Beaumont had forgotten that Nancy and he had dinner plans with the Robinsons, but walking into the kitchen and seeing his wife dressed in her favorite green dress made him remember.

  “We’re going out?” he said.

  “You forgot.”

  “Only a little bit.”

  “I talked with Michelle and we agreed to meet at the restaurant. The reservation’s for six-thirty, and Michaela’s going to be here any moment, and that gives us just a few minutes to go over the kids’ schedules with her, so please get dressed fast, and I don’t think you have time for a shower.”

  In the bedroom Matthew found that Nancy had laid out an outfit for him, a pair of tan chinos and a button-down shirt that was supposed to be worn untucked. He stripped out of his suit, applied fresh deodorant, and got dressed, his mind going over the evening ahead, trying to figure out if he should tell the Robinsons about the letter he’d gotten the day before, and about the FBI agent who came and collected it from him at the office today. The agent had mentioned to him to keep the fact of the letter to himself, or more specifically, the other names on the letter, but had shrugged when Matthew told him that he’d already shown his wife. It was a good story, the letter, and if he was just having drinks with Pete Robinson, or with Michelle, for that matter, then he would definitely tell it. But he was mindful of Nancy’s reaction to the list the evening before, and how suspicious she’d been, and didn’t know how she’d be if he brought it up at dinner. And he definitely didn’t know how she’d react when he told her that an agent had called him at his office, then sent another agent to take the letter away as some kind of evidence. Actually, he did know how she’d react. For one, she’d become convinced that it was some sort of sexual blackmail list. And she’d also freak out that Matthew had taken the list with him to work, instead of simply throwing it out at home. It would prove his guilt, somehow. But the only reason he’d taken the list with him into work was so that Nancy wouldn’t happen upon it again and get upset.

  When he came back downstairs, in his new outfit, he was assaulted by Alex racing through the foyer, wearing one sock and sliding on the floor, kicking off with his bare foot.

  “Don’t get a splinter,” Matthew said, but Alex was already around the corner into the large living room.

  He could hear Nancy speaking and entered the kitchen, where she was giving directions to Michaela, one of the teen girls from the neighborhood who’d been their primary babysitter for two years now. They loved Michaela because she could manage Alex, or at least she always reported at the end of the night that he’d been fine. His wife and the babysitter were on opposite sides of the granite island, and Matthew made sure to keep his gaze averted from any part of Michaela that wasn’t her forehead. She’d recently transformed from a stick insect into a young woman with curves, and wore, like all the girls her age, yoga pants that still looked like nothing more than underwear to Matthew, and a striped shirt that didn’t quite meet up with the top of the pants.

  “Emma can do what she wants, of course. Don’t worry about her. And if Alex can’t settle down after dinner, then it’s okay if he watches one of his shows but only from his Netflix account, don’t let him log onto ours.”

  “He doesn’t know the code,” Matthew said.

  “He probably does,” Nancy said, while Michaela nodded, smiling. Didn’t she used to have braces? Matthew couldn’t remember, but if she did, she’d had them removed.

  “Okay. He probably does.”

  “He’s fine,” Michaela said. “Last time he taught me a video game he likes to play. Okay if we do that again?”

  “Sure,” Matthew said, “but you might want to let him win if you don’t want to see a temper tantrum.”

  “It’s not a winning game, exactly,” Michaela said. “More of a world-building game.”

  As they drove to the restaurant, Nancy was quiet for thirty seconds, and Matthew was thinking of telling her about the FBI, when Nancy spoke first. “I don’t think Michaela should keep babysitting if you’re going to flirt with her the way you do. It’s perverse.”

  Matthew sighed, as silently as he could, then said, calmly, “Nance, trust me, I was not flirting with Michaela. It’s impossible because I have no interest in Michaela. She’s a child.”

  “I’m just telling you—”

  “I know what you’re telling me, and I hear you, even though you’re wrong. We can talk more about this, but not right now, okay? Let’s try to have a decent night out with our friends.”

  Two hours later, as dessert arrived at their table, Matthew marveled that dinner with the Robinsons had actually been nice. Nancy, despite her earlier mood, seemed to relax as the evening went on. Glasshouses was a farm-to-table bistro that had recently expanded to include an outdoor patio with heat lamps, and that was where their table was, underneath the night sky. The cool air was filled with the smells from the wood-fired grill. Matthew’s duck breast had been delicious, and he allowed himself one bite of the tarte tatin with salted caramel ice cream, telling himself he definitely would go on a run the next morning.

  He was seated across from Michelle Robinson, and next to Pete, which allowed the men to talk Patriots while the women talked about their children. But after dessert they’d all agreed to one more drink each, and now Matthew was talking with Michelle and sipping port, while she told him about her trip down to New York to see Hamilton. No one would describe Michelle as beautiful. She had short legs and heavy hips, and her features were a little too large for her round face, but Matthew had always harbored a small crush on her. It had begun at a backyard barbecue the previous summer, one thrown by the Cartwrights, mutual friends of Matthew and his wife and the Robinsons. A late afternoon storm had marooned Matthew and Michelle inside the Cartwrights’ pool house with a group of shivering children who had all fled from the pool. Matthew and Michelle had been looking at a shelf filled with children’s toys, mostly neglected or broken or forgotten, and Michelle said, “I’ve entered the portion of my life where everything fills me with sadness.”

  “Have you?” said Matthew, shocked by the sudden confession.

  She’d laughed. “Sorry, did I say that out loud? I’m being dramatic, or that’s what Pete would say. I just feel like the exciting and mysterious parts of my life are over, and now everything fills me with nostalgia. Truthfully, I’m just being a baby about growing old.”