The shooter had, apparently, been taken by helicopter to Victoria directly after his arrest. They didn’t even allow Stewart to book and jail him. I shouldn’t have been surprised. The young man had shot and critically injured an RCMP constable. They were not going to mess around with that one.

  The minister had started a prayer circle on the island’s Facebook page. The four of us made a rather unusual group as we closed our eyes and held hands around the coffee table in the station interview room. I’m sure the RCMP officers walking by were perplexed as to whether we were praying or holding a séance. Perhaps it was a bit of both.

  Stewart finally stumbled into the station with Ian beside him. Ian’s lanky body tensed as if awaiting Stewart’s collapse at any moment. Stewart’s face was haggard, dirt and dried blood staining his uniform. I ran out of the interview room, stopping him with one hand.

  “Stewart, are you okay?”

  He paused to look over at me, his brow crinkling in confusion. It was as if he didn’t understand the question or know what okay meant anymore.

  “He’s fine, Kate. Just exhausted. Let’s get him to a seat.”

  I held his other arm and helped him over to his desk. He sat down with a slow thud of bone-weary exhaustion.

  “Is there any news?” I asked, afraid of what the answer might be. Was it bad news? Was that the reason for Stewart’s demeanor? Had he already heard how Lesley’s surgery had turned out?

  Oh no, not Lesley. Please, not Lesley.

  Ian glanced over at me, his sharp eyes assessing, most likely correctly, what was racing through my mind. He cracked a small smile.

  “Lesley’s out of surgery. It looks like she’s going to make it.”

  * * *

  I parked the truck in front of the small row of A-frame vacation cottages on the island’s eastern side. They looked like they had been built sometime in the seventies, with their weathered cedar siding, but had been well-maintained over the years. They had a lovely ocean view, a fantastic advertising point in typical summer weather. Unfortunately, this morning they were adorned in a cloak of fog.

  The previous evening, utterly exhausted, I had texted Dougie before going to bed. I needed him to find out something for me: where Jack Donahue was staying on Wynter Island. It had not taken him long to track down the address for me.

  I started up the driveway, spotting an older Hyundai with a license plate that read GSP RUS.

  “Christ almighty,” I muttered, stopping at the front door.

  It had been a difficult twenty-four hours. I had only gotten a few hours of scattered sleep as my mind replayed everything that had transpired. Sensing my restlessness, Jupiter had curled up beside me. I turned on one side and spooned against him, my head resting on his furry spine as I finally slept.

  “Here goes nothing,” I murmured and knocked on the door.

  The silence was followed by the rustling of footsteps headed toward the door. The weathered door opened a crack, Jack’s unshaven face peering out at me. He opened the door wider, his face split in an unwelcoming grimace.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “May I come in?” I asked.

  He hesitated. I knew he wanted to slam the door in my face, but I could tell he also wanted to know what had brought me there. He finally opened the door wider, and I stepped in.

  The room had the funk of a teenage boy’s bedroom. Warm, fetid with the orange cheesiness of day-old Cheetos, dirty clothes heaped onto a small chair, ready to be washed. He brushed the clothes off the chair and gestured me toward it.

  “No, thanks. I’ll stand.”

  “Okay.” His forehead bunched up in confusion. “What are you doing here? Come to crow about the fact you helped find Rosalie’s murderer?”

  I examined his face for a moment. It still had some of the soft edges of youth but had corroded and aged, probably due to his smoking and drug use. I could only faintly see the John Donahue I had known in college. The John Donahue I had unknowingly, unthinkingly, hurt.

  “No, I haven’t, and I’m not going to waste time explaining to you again that I am not the monster you’ve made me out to be.”

  “Huh,” he sneered and started to speak, but I cut him off with a wave of one hand.

  “No, it’s time for you to listen to me.” I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out the folded piece of paper I had printed just before leaving the cottage that morning. I handed it to him, and he took it carefully, as if poison might somehow leach off it onto his skin. “That is a signed statement from me detailing what happened yesterday, including Scott’s confession. The whole story. There are two copies: one for you, the other has been emailed to a CBC Vancouver reporter, Cindy Hu. I will be releasing a full statement to the media tomorrow morning. For the next 24 hours, this will be yours and Cindy’s exclusive.”

  He unfolded the paper and scanned the text I had written. He looked back up, directly into my eyes. The anger in his eyes quickly dashed any faint hope I had that he might be pleased.

  “So you think this will buy me off? Is that it?”

  I shook my head. “No. In fact, how you feel about it isn’t the point. I hate to break it to you, Jack, but not everything is about you.”

  He snorted but said nothing.

  “I can’t control what you do, how you feel, whether you want to forgive me or hold a grudge. All I can control is what I do, what choices I make.”

  “Like the choice you made ten years ago?”

  I sighed. “Yes, like the choice I made ten years ago. I was wrong. I should have taken the time to find out where that story came from, and I’m sorry about that. But all I can do now is try and make amends.”

  I thought of Rosalie. She must have known that it would be a long and challenging path back to forgiveness from the islanders. Over time, some may have understood that she had grown and changed. But for many, it may have been too little, too late. And yet she still returned. Because, as I now understood, forgiveness wasn’t necessarily her destination. Understanding her own failings and accepting responsibility for any harm she’d done was the point.

  “So, as far as I’m concerned, we’re even.”

  He laughed out loud, a horrible, brittle sound. “Really?”

  I didn’t join in. “Yes, really. In my heart, it’s over. What you choose to believe is up to you.” I turned and headed for the door. I stopped as my hand reached the knob and turned to look back at him in his filthy t-shirt and wrinkled jeans. “Can you hear the loons here, Jack?”

  “The loons? You mean, the birds?’

  “Yes, the birds.”

  “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

  I smiled. “You’ve just been given a second chance, Jack, to move past your anger and get to a better place in your life. Take that exclusive and run with it. Use it to get the attention of a bigger, better employer. But know that whatever you choose, it’s on your shoulders now.”

  I stepped outside, pulling the door shut behind me. I could hear muffled swearing as he gasped with anger. I didn’t care.

  The fog appeared to be thinning. As I headed to the truck, I realized the fog’s edge burned, almost shimmered, with a golden light. I stopped in astonishment as a ray broke through, like the finger of God, to dab the ocean with a single pool of light. Was it the sun?

  Yes, it’s the sun.

  Epilogue

  4 weeks later, Lions Club Fall Salmon BBQ

  The school playing fields smelled like salmon. Barbequed salmon, to be precise. Islanders in yellow Lions Club t-shirts manned two makeshift trough BBQs, the first sizzling rosy-pink slabs of salmon over the coals. The next held what looked to be hamburgers and hot dogs, unopened plastic bags of hot dog and hamburger buns stacked into teetering piles waiting to be filled. A long folding table covered with a white cloth was placed beside them, a mix of salads laid out in a mismatched assortment of Tupperware and mixing bowls, along with paper plates and plastic cutlery.

  “Hey, Kate,” Kurt called out, waving me towards a table with the Legion banner hanging above it.

  “Kurt, how are you doing?” I asked. “How’s Harald?”

  “He’s doing okay. He’s resting now. He’ll be over later for some food.”

  “How’s his shoulder healing?”

  The bullet the drug addict had shot that day had luckily missed Harald’s head and instead sliced into his upper arm. The resulting fracture had needed surgery to screw the bones together as well as remove the bullet, but he was going to be okay.

  “It’s doing better. He’s getting physio to try and help him get some movement back. Because the bone was shattered, his right arm will always be weaker than his left.”

  I nodded. It was a big price to pay, especially for someone who was right-handed, but one I knew Harald wouldn’t regret. Kurt was alive. He didn’t need anything more than that.

  “Would you like a cold drink? With your BBQ ticket, you get a Coke or a Sprite. We also have cold beer for an extra donation.”

  “I’ll have a Sprite, I think, Kurt.” He handed me the dripping tin, and I popped it open with a low hiss. “I’ll stop by and see you again when Harald arrives, okay?”

  He nodded. “Sure. Sounds good to me.”

  Gwen and Sam were standing hand in hand, chatting within a group. I could see Selesia, Brad, and Phil there. Also, Ian dressed casually in jeans and a t-shirt.

  Oh, that’s nice. I’m glad he was able to make it.

  “Hi, everyone,” I said as I walked up to them.

  “Hi Kate,” numerous voices replied.

  “We were just talking to Phil about what he’s going to do with all his money,” Gwen said.

  We had all been stunned to find out in those first horrible days after Jason’s death that Rosalie had placed an unusual covenant in her will. For her succession requirement, she had specified that the beneficiary must survive until the process was completed to receive the estate. As Jason died before that happened, the estate was to have been split between Scott and Phil. As Scott had pleaded guilty to Rosalie’s death, he was banned from inheriting anything from her estate. That meant everything, including the Glass House, had been passed down to Phil. Fisherman Phil was now the wealthiest individual living on Wynter Island.

  “Oh, is he giving some to the TV station?” I asked teasingly. As Phil’s brows furrowed in consternation, I quickly added. “That’s just a joke, Phil. Don’t get upset.”

  “Well, you know, it’s not as if I don’t already have my own charity case over here.” He nudged Brad playfully with his elbow. “He’s getting a commercial fishing trawler for nothing.”

  “Yes, I heard that you’re busy getting ready to take over the Wet Witch, Brad.”

  He nodded happily. “Yeah, lots of paperwork and paying for my commercial fishing license is all that’s left. Then I should be ready to go.”

  “I’ll crew for him the first year, just to keep an eye on things,” Phil added, his face splitting into a wide smile.

  This was a new Phil, one whose cares seemed to have lifted off his gnarled frame. It was nice to see. Perhaps he had found in Brad what he had lost in Rose.

  “Hi everyone,” Shea walked up to join us. “Has anyone seen Lesley?”

  Gwen dropped Sam’s hand and glanced hurriedly at her wristwatch. “Oh, that reminds me of something. I’ll be right back,” and she dashed over to where the school band was setting up.

  “Well, that was sudden,” Shea said. “I still don’t know where Lesley is.”

  Shea looked almost back to her old self, although she still needed to regain some of the weight she’d lost during that first stressful week Lesley was in hospital. Lesley was still on medical leave. One bullet had entered her abdomen, hitting her liver and causing internal bleeding. The other had hit her in the right thigh, causing some vascular problems and a broken thigh bone. But she was home and able, in a wheelchair, to get around the farmhouse and out into the community.

  “I don’t know how I lost her. I mean, she’s in a wheelchair. It’s not like she’s incredibly mobile.”

  “I’m sure she’s around here somewhere,” I answered.

  “Oh, there she is,” Shea said, pointing to where Lesley was being wheeled into the middle of the field. “She’s with Vera. Oh, and Betty, Doreen, and Gwen.”

  Vera was handling the wheelchair while Doreen, Betty, and Gwen walked alongside, holding three large white sheets of cardboard.

  “What the hell?” Shea murmured and started toward them when Sam firmly but kindly pulled her back.

  “You just need to wait here for a second,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.

  “What?” Shea looked over at me.

  I shrugged. I was as confused as she was.

  Suddenly, the rag tag school band, made up of a kid with a trumpet, one on drums, and a young man with a small electronic piano, started playing. A young girl, maybe 13 or so, stepped out on to the field holding a wireless microphone in one hand and began to sing

  “It had to be you, it had to be you

  I wandered around, and finally found, somebody who

  Could make me be true, could make me be blue

  And even be glad just to be sad, thinking of you…”

  As the first verses drifted off on the ocean air, first Betty, then Gwen, and Doreen flipped over their pieces of cardboard. On the first, the word Will had been decoupaged on the cardboard, with what appeared to be photos of Wynter Island.

  Of course! That’s what Crafting with Cocktails has been working on!

  The second had the word You, and then the third and final photo montage said, Marry Me?

  “Some others I’ve seen might never be mean

  Might never be cross or try to be boss

  But they wouldn’t do…”

  Shea didn’t move. One hand covered her mouth, which was agape in shock. Sam leaned forward and gave her a gentle push.

  “Out you go. You can’t expect her to come to you now, can you?”

  “For nobody else gave me a thrill

  With all your faults, I love you still

  It had to be you, wonderful you, it had to be you…”

  I watched, my heart filled with joy for them, as Shea unsteadily walked out on to the field, stopping to kneel beside Lesley’s wheelchair. There was a moment of silence. And then they embraced and kissed, Shea being careful not to re-injure Lesley. Lesley produced a small box from the side of the wheelchair and removed a ring which she placed on Shea’s finger.

  “Yes!” The shouts rang out across the school field, drawing the Lions Club volunteers away from their cooking stations. “Yay! Three Cheers for Lesley and Shea! Hip Hip Hooray! Hip Hip Hooray! Hip Hip Hooray!”

  I could see Kurt a few feet down from me, wiping a tear from his cheek. After this difficult summer, this moment held a special meaning for so many of us.

  “It’s a handmade ring designed by Lesley,” Sam said to me. “Made by that artist out on the eastern side of the island. Gretchen Steubbs is her name, I think.”

  I smiled and nodded. Yes, the infamous Gretchen Steubbs. Not woman-stealer, but instead artisan engagement ring-maker.

  A few feet down in the other direction, I spotted Michael and Anna, swept up in the romance of the moment, kissing.

  I guess they’re going to give it another try.

  My heart squeezed painfully in my chest. Michael and Anna were still together. I had to accept that and move on.

  “Kate?”

  I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to see Ben standing beside me, one hand holding Lucy on a long lead. His smile as he gazed down at me was so warm, so sweet, that I reached both hands around his neck and kissed him. Not a little peck, but a real honest to goodness kiss. He returned it, dropping Lucy’s lead to wrap his arms around my waist.

  “Hey, get a room,” Brad teased as we stepped back from each other’s embrace.

  “Hi,” he said somewhat breathlessly. “It’s nice to see you.”

  I stared into his eyes for a moment and then picked up Lucy’s lead with one hand and took his hand with my other.

  “Hi, Ben. It’s nice to see you, too.”

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to first thank my editors at Level Best Books, Harriette Wasserman Sackler and Verena Main Rose. They, and the mystery-writing community, have been a great support to me as I wrote this book. My husband, Stuart, two sons, and three dogs also deserve my thanks. Depending on the day, they can be equal parts helpful or distracting, but I still love them. The Reserve on Wynter Island—and the island itself—are make-believe, but the Tsawout First Nation is not. They are one of five W̱SÁNEĆ Communities on Southern Vancouver Island that constitute the Saanich nation. I hope I have done justice in these pages to their Indigenous history and continued fight against systemic racism.

  About the Author

  Kim worked as a journalist in Canada for many years, with experience in both print and broadcast journalism. Her book, Gelato with the Pope, highlights her time as a syndicated travel columnist in the Nineties.

  In addition to her syndicated travel column, she has written feature articles for various publications, edited a monthly children’s publication in British Columbia, and had her poetry published in Do Whales Jump At Night: A Canadian Anthology of Children’s Poetry. She won a Microsoft web design award for Footloose, one of the first digital e-zines on the internet.

  The Loon’s Song is the second book in her mystery series, The Wynter Island Mysteries. It is based in the Gulf Islands of British Columbia and follows a journalist seeking a new life as manager of a small community tv station.

  Kim is a board member of Sisters in Crime New England as well as their Director of Public Relations.