And the detective says, “Do you know an Angel Delaporte?”

And Misty sniffs and says, “Want to order now?”

Stilton’s handwriting, Angel Delaporte should see it. His letters are tall, soaring up, ambitious, idealistic. The writing slants hard to the right, aggressive, stubborn. His heavy pressure against the page shows a strong libido. That’s what Angel would tell you. The tails of his letters, the lowercase y ’s and g ’s, hang straight down. This means determination and strong leadership.

Detective Stilton looks at Misty and says, “Would you describe your neighbors as hostile to outsiders?”

Just for the record, if you have masturbation down to less than three minutes because you share a bathtub with fourteen people, take another drink.

In art theory, you learn that women look for men with prominent brows and large, square chins. This was some study a sociologist did at West Point Academy. It proved that rectangular faces, deep-set eyes, and ears that lie close to their heads, this is what makes men attractive.

This is how Detective Stilton looks, plus a few extra pounds. He’s not smiling now, but the wrinkles that crease his cheeks and his crow’s-feet prove he smiles a lot. He smiles more than he frowns. The scars of happiness. It could be his extra weight, but the corrugator wrinkles between his eyes and the brow-lift wrinkles across his forehead, his worry lines, are almost invisible.

All that, and the bright red horns on his forehead.

These are all little visual cues you respond to. The code of attraction. This is why we love who we love. Whether or not you’re consciously aware of them, this is the reason we do what we do.

This is how we know what we don’t know.

Wrinkles as handwriting analysis. Graphology. Angel would be impressed.

Dear sweet Peter, he grew his black hair so long because his ears stuck out.

Your ears stick out.

Tabbi’s ears are her father’s. Tabbi’s long dark hair is his.

Yours.

Stilton says, “Life’s changing around here and plenty of people won’t like that. If your husband isn’t acting alone, we could see assault. Arson. Murder.”

All Misty has to do is look down, and she starts to fall. If she turns her head, her vision blurs, the whole room smears for a moment.

Misty tears the detective’s check out of her pad and lays it on the table, saying, “Will there be anything else?”

“Just one more question, Mrs. Wilmot,” he says. He sips his glass of iced tea, watching her over the rim. And he says, “I’d like to talk to your in-laws—your husband’s parents—if that’s possible.”

Peter’s mother, Grace Wilmot, is staying here in the hotel, Misty tells him. Peter’s father, Harrow Wilmot, is dead. Since about thirteen or fourteen years ago.

Detective Stilton makes another note. He says, “How did your father-in-law die?”

It was a heart attack, Misty thinks. She’s not sure.

And Stilton says, “It sounds like you don’t know any of your in-laws very well.”

Her headache tap, tap, tapping the back of her skull, Misty says, “Did you say if you wanted some coffee?”

DR. TOUCHET SHINES a light into Misty’s eyes and tells her to blink. He looks into her ears. He looks up her nose. He turns out the office lights while he makes her point a flashlight into her mouth. The same way Angel Delaporte’s flashlight looked into the hole in his dining room wall. This is an old doctor’s trick to illuminate the sinuses, they spread out, glowing red under the skin around your nose, and you can check for shadows that mean blockage, infections. Sinus headaches. He tilts Misty’s head back and peers down her throat.

He says, “Why do you say it was food poisoning?”

So Misty tells him about the diarrhea, the cramps, the headaches. Misty tells him everything except the hallucination.

He pumps up the blood pressure cuff around her arm and releases the pressure. With her every heartbeat, they both watch the pressure spike on the dial. The pain in her head, the throb matches every pulse.

Then her blouse is off, and Dr. Touchet’s holding one of her arms up while he feels inside the armpit. He’s wearing glasses and stares at the wall beside them while his fingers work. In a mirror on one wall, Misty can watch them. Her bra looks stretched so tight the straps cut into her shoulders. Her skin rolls over the waistband of her slacks. Her necklace of junk jewelry pearls, as it wraps around the back of her neck, the pearls disappear into a deep fold of fat.

Dr. Touchet, his fingers root, tunnel, bore into her armpit.

The windows of the examining room are frosted glass, and her blouse hangs on a hook on the back of the door. This is the same room where Misty had Tabbi. Pale green tiled walls and a white tiled floor. It’s the same examination table. Peter was born here. So was Paulette. Will Tupper. Matt Hyland. Brett Petersen. So was everyone on the island under the age of fifty. The island’s so small, Dr. Touchet is also the mortician. He prepared Peter’s father, Harrow, before his funeral. His cremation.

Your father.

Harrow Wilmot was everything Misty wanted Peter to become. The way men want to meet their prospective mother-in-law so they can judge how their fiancee will look in another twenty years, that’s what Misty did. Harry would be the man Misty would be married to in her middle age. Tall with gray sideburns, a straight nose, and a long cleft chin.

Now when Misty closes her eyes and tries to picture Harrow Wilmot, what she sees is his ashes being scattered from the rocks on Waytansea Point. A long gray cloud.

If Dr. Touchet uses this same room for embalming, Misty doesn’t know. If he lives long enough, he’ll prepare Grace Wilmot. Dr. Touchet was the physician on the scene when they found Peter.

When they found you.

If they ever pull the plug, he’ll probably prepare the body.

Your body.

Dr. Touchet feels underneath each arm. Rooting around for nodes. For cancer. He knows just where to press your spine to make your head tilt back. The fake pearls folded deep in the back of her neck. His eyes, the irises are too far apart for him to be looking at you. He hums a tune. Focusing somewhere else. You can tell he’s used to working with dead people.

Sitting on the examination table, watching them both in the mirror, Misty says, “What used to be out on the point?”

And Dr. Touchet jumps, startled. He looks up, eyebrows arched with surprise.

As if some dead body just spoke.

“Out on Waytansea Point,” Misty says. “There’s statues, like it used to be a park. What was it?”

His finger probes deep between the tendons on the back of her neck, and he says, “Before we had a crematorium in this area, that was our cemetery.” This would feel good except his fingers are so cold.

But Misty didn’t see any tombstones.

His fingers probing for lymph nodes under her jaw, he says, “There’s a mausoleum dug into the hill out there.” His eyes staring at the wall, he frowns and says, “At least a couple centuries ago. Grace could tell you more than I could.”

The grotto. The little stone bank building. The state capitol with its fancy columns and carved archway, all of it crumbling and held together with tree roots. The locked iron gate, the darkness inside.

Her headache tap, tap, taps the nail in deeper.

The diplomas on the examining room’s green tiled wall are yellowed, cloudy under glass. Water-stained. Flyspecked. Daniel Touchet, M.D. Holding her wrist between two fingers, Dr. Touchet checks her pulse against his wristwatch.

His triangularis pulling both corners of his mouth down in a frown, he puts his cold stethoscope between her shoulder blades. He says, “Misty, I need you to take a deep breath and hold it.”

The cold stab of the stethoscope moves around her back.