Similar descriptions. Two rapes. Twenty-five years apart. In the same town. As she crawled under the covers of her bed, Hannah’s letters scattered across the sheets, Rachel told herself it was a fluke coincidence. It was only while she was drifting off that she remembered something that made her realize there was no coincidence at all.

It was still dark when Rachel rolled out of bed and dressed in running gear. Even though it was a good hour before dawn, it might as well have been the middle of the night when Rachel pushed through the revolving doors of the hotel and emerged onto the deserted street. The streetlights were on and the traffic lights were changing colors, but there was not a single vehicle on the road that ran parallel to the beach.

Rachel ran along the boardwalk, retracing the route she’d walked with Dan and Christine Moore the night before. By the time she reached Morrison’s Point, the sky was a lighter shade of dark blue. Dawn would break soon. Rachel didn’t stop at the jetty. She kept running, passing one beach after the next until her face was flushed and her breathing labored.

The boat sheds rattled in the breeze as she came onto the last beach. It was so close to the marine reserve that she could see the timber-and-stone visitors’ station with its maps and illustrations of local bird and marine life. Rachel moved between the boathouses quietly, sticking to the shifting shadows.

She pressed herself against a shed and waited. As dawn broke, a door slammed open. The hulking figure of Vince Knox—or whatever his real name was—pushed a small fiberglass boat out of the timber shed and down a sandy incline toward the water. The outboard motor was lifted up so it wouldn’t drag on the sand.

When the boat was on the edge of the water and would go no farther, he went into the water and grabbed the ropes, pulling the boat off the beach until it was floating.

Rachel ran down to the beach and waved to get his attention. He didn’t see her at first. He was arranging crab cages on the bottom of the boat so the weight was evenly distributed. When he raised his head, he looked confused and then angry to see Rachel waiting by the shore.

“You again! What do you want this time?” His voice was rough.

“How’s the bird doing?” Rachel asked.

“She’s drinking and eating,” he said. “I’ll release her in a couple of days.”

“That’s good news,” said Rachel, still standing her ground. He went about his work but glanced at her every now and again as if to ask why she was still there.

“I need to ask you about something important.”

“I don’t answer questions. Not yours. Not anyone else’s. Now get the hell off my beach,” he called back.

“It’s about the Scott Blair trial,” she said.

He looked at her in irritation. They’d already discussed that the last time she’d turned up uninvited. He jumped out of his boat and waded back onto the beach. Rachel thought he was coming to talk to her. Instead, he walked straight past her and kept walking up to the boat shed. When he returned, he was carrying a big white bucket for his catch, and a rusted pike. Rachel suspected it was to lift the crab cages out of the water, but he held on to it like it was a spear, and she got the impression that he was hoping it would intimidate her.

“You lied by omission on the stand. I want to know what really happened,” Rachel called out as he walked past her.

“I don’t have to tell you shit about nothing,” he said, tossing the bucket into the boat. He pointed the metal pike at Rachel as if to scare her off. Rachel kept her hands on her hips. Vince Knox didn’t scare her one bit.

“There’s nobody around except for you and me. If you were a smart lady, you’d turn around and get the hell out of here,” he warned her.

“Listen to me for two minutes,” Rachel insisted.

Finally, he put down the bucket, listening to her speak as he stared down at his bare feet. His shorts and T-shirt were soaked through from pulling the motorboat into the water. Rachel gave him an abridged version of what she needed. And why. His expression was impassive as she explained.

“I can’t help you,” he said when she was done. “I told you before. I mind my own business. It’s the only way I can survive, living the life that I live.”

“Sometimes a man has to speak up or be responsible for the repercussions of his silence,” Rachel told him.

He turned back to the boat and tossed in the pike with a clatter before climbing in. The boat rocked unsteadily as he scrambled to a seat next to the outboard motor. Rachel slipped off her sneakers and waded barefoot into the water.

“Wait,” Rachel called out, approaching the boat.

He ignored her and pulled the cord to turn on the engine. It spluttered. He reached out to pull the cord a second time when Rachel called out again.

“Bobby, wait,” she shouted. He dropped the cord and looked up at her.

“How do you know my real name?”

“A girl who once knew you, she wrote me some letters that mentioned a boy with gray eyes called Bobby,” said Rachel. “Bobby helped her injured sister by taking off his shirt and wrapping it around her like a blanket to keep her warm. To stop her from going into shock. Just like the way you did with the seagull. And just like the way you did on this very beach last year when you found—” Her words were swallowed by the wind.

“Who is the girl who wrote the letters?” he interrupted. “What’s her name?”

“Her name is Hannah Stills. Her sister was Jenny Stills,” said Rachel. “Do you remember them?”

“A little,” he said. “My memory is bad from that time, on account of the accident.”

“What accident?”

“I drove a truck into a tree when I was younger. Killed my two friends. I survived. If you can call looking like this surviving,” he said, lifting his T-shirt to display the third-degree burns she’d seen before on his chest. He laughed, an angry, bitter laugh. “I was in the hospital for nearly a year after that. Had skin graft after skin graft. Fourteen surgeries in all. That whole period is a haze. I remembered only what I was told. That I’d driven into a tree and killed my friends. I reckon that these scars here are a small price to pay for what I did.”

“Maybe you don’t remember Jenny Stills,” Rachel said. “But you remember another girl you helped on this beach. You were there that night. Weren’t you?”

He didn’t hear her. He’d turned on the outboard motor and was heading out into the ocean. Rachel listened to the whine of the motor as he navigated the boat through the crests of incoming waves until he had escaped the pull of the tide and was out at sea.

When he returned, two hours later, Rachel was sitting cross-legged on the beach, waiting for him. Once he’d secured his boat and stepped onshore, he looked at her and nodded.

49

Rachel

Dale Quinn failed to hide his elation when he saw the dejected slump of Mitch Alkins’s shoulders at the prosecutors’ table as he walked into court on Monday morning. Victory was within touching distance.

Quinn took his seat at the defense table and leaned back for a lighthearted exchange with Greg Blair. The courtroom was crackling with anticipation by the time Judge Shaw entered in his black robe. His eyes were steely when he asked Mitch Alkins, as he’d done every morning the previous week, whether the complainant was ready to resume her cross-examination.

“Your Honor,” said Alkins, “Miss Moore’s parents and therapist have advised that her mental state is too fragile for further questioning in open court. However, she can provide written answers, or videotape her answers to a list of questions provided by the defense. I ask for latitude in this regard. She is very young and very traumatized and I am certain we can elicit her testimony under cross-examination without tormenting her further by bringing her back into this courtroom.”

“Your Honor.” Dale Quinn bounded to his feet. “I need to cross-examine the witness myself before the jury. Anything less would prejudice my client’s right—”

“Yes, yes, I know, Mr. Quinn,” interrupted Judge Shaw. “Your client’s right to a fair trial. Believe me, Counselor, we are doing contortions here to keep it as fair as possible.”

Judge Shaw gestured for Quinn and Alkins to approach the bench. Nobody so much as cleared their throat as the judge conferred with the two attorneys at a sidebar, everyone straining to hear their hushed discussion. Sophia, the courtroom artist next to Rachel, stopped sketching while they spoke. It was impossible to know exactly what had been discussed when Judge Shaw finally ordered Quinn and Alkins to step away from the bar and return to their seats.

Mitch Alkins’s shoulders were hunched and he scratched the side of his forehead as if he was deeply unsatisfied with the outcome as he returned to the prosecutors’ table. Rachel guessed that Judge Shaw had refused his request to allow Kelly to provide testimony in writing or by video.

Back at the defense table, Dale Quinn stood up, trying not to look jubilant as he buttoned his jacket. “Your Honor,” Quinn said. “Since the complainant, Miss Moore, is unavailable today, which was the deadline for her to return to court for cross-examination, I move that her entire testimony be struck from the record.”

“I am inclined to agree with Mr. Quinn,” said Judge Shaw.