Evie found a tube of Crest in the drawer. As she brushed her teeth, she wondered when her mother had started taking vitamins. Even more surprisingly, given the complete disarray of the rest of the house, she’d kept them lined them up in her medicine cabinet in alphabetical order.

Evie didn’t bother changing out of the plaid flannel pajama bottoms and NYU sweatshirt she’d slept in, though she did take a moment to brush her hair into a ponytail and wash her face, checking that she didn’t have flecks of sleep still in her eyes. She was about to leave when she paused. If Finn saw her sorting the mail in the house, anyone could have. She went back inside, took the envelopes of cash from under the mattress, stuffed them into her purse, and took her purse with her.

As she locked the front door, she remembered how her parents and all their neighbors used to leave their doors unlocked. It didn’t really surprise her that her mother had given a garage key to Finn. That way, she wouldn’t need to worry about being there when the deliveries arrived; more to the point, she wouldn’t have had to worry about being sober or even awake.

Evie was out on the sidewalk before she realized that the steps hadn’t creaked. She went back to inspect them. New planks were already in place. Finn must have come over at the crack of dawn to do the work.

Evie started for Sparkles at a brisk clip. The morning was chilly, but with each stride away from the water the air grew warmer, and she slowed her pace. She checked her phone on the off chance that she’d missed any calls. Nothing from the hospital. Nothing from Seth. She was as relieved by the latter as by the former.

She’d been surprised that Finn had known instantly where her father’s fire station, Rescue 3, was located. She hoped he wasn’t one of those fire freaks—sparkies, her dad used to call them—men who chased the apparatus and were so obsessed with the spectacle that they didn’t have the good sense to get out of the way. When Evie’s parents’ house had burned, a group of them had come to watch, eager to add the Ferrantes’ address to the list of fires they’d witnessed firsthand. Meanwhile their mother tried to comfort Evie and Ginger, who were crying hysterically, knowing the dogs were still in the house.

That day, news vans and police vehicles had parked at Sparkles. Now the half-dozen parking spaces outside the store were filled. She went inside, taking a deep inhale of rich coffee aroma. Two checkout lines were operating to handle the morning crush. She got in Finn’s line. She caught his eye and mouthed Thank you! He flashed her a thumbs-up.

As Evie waited her turn at the register, from outside she heard the polite toot-toot of a car horn. Through the plate-glass window she caught a glimpse of the outside parking area. A dark Mercedes was pulling out. A moment later, a Land Rover pulled in.

Land Rover? Mercedes? That made her take a second look at the other people in line. They were more racially mixed, and some were speaking Spanish, but otherwise they were not all that different from the clientele who lined up at Dunkin’ Donuts in her quickly gentrifying Brooklyn neighborhood.

Finally she was at the front of the line. But by then only a few plain cake, chocolate iced, and glazed doughnuts remained in the glass case. No jelly. It was ridiculous how disappointed she felt.

“I saved you one,” Finn said, reaching under the counter and bringing out a little paper plate holding a single perfect powdered-sugar-covered jelly doughnut.

Chapter Twenty-one

It was an exceptionally clear morning. Mina buttoned her sweater and folded her arms against the chill as she rocked on her back porch. The sun was already high in the sky, making the water sparkle, and the Manhattan skyline was in sharp focus. Mina picked out the Chrysler Building and the Empire State Building, both still distinctive amid the surrounding welter of box-top skyscrapers.

The girl had wanted to talk to her about what it had been like working at the Empire State. Did she remember? she’d asked. How could Mina not? Steadying herself with her cane, she stood and stepped to the porch railing. Every day she looked out at that building and was reminded. Maybe talking about it would be a good thing.

A loud smack startled her as something solid caromed off the porch column, inches from her head. Far too late, Mina cried out and ducked. With a gentle whoosh the missile landed in the marsh grass beyond her narrow strip of neatly mowed lawn.

Idiotic. Pea-brained. Had to be that man from across the street using the narrow strip between her house and the one next door as his own private driving range. Had he been at it all morning?

Mina took cover at the edge of the house, imagining him teeing up another ball, lining up his shot, swinging . . . Nothing. She waited a few moments more before stepping to the side of the porch and daring a glance back between the houses. There was no one there. Frank Cutler and his trusty nine-iron must have beaten a hasty retreat when he heard her cry out.

She had a good mind to march over there and confront him. But she knew what he’d say. Golf ball? What golf ball? Then he’d shake his head at her delusional, overactive imagination.

He could scoff at her all he wanted, but she knew what she knew. And now—she gazed speculatively out to where clumps of marsh grass that had been planted by city workers two years ago along the shoreline were now filling in nicely—she’d have proof. This time, if she wasn’t mistaken, the ball had landed just a few feet in.

She looked down at her feet. She had on bedroom slippers. What she needed were boots. Rubber boots. Like the tall fishing boots that her father used to wear back when you could cast your net into the river and pull out healthy, foot-long herring.

Mina found her father’s old boots, dust covered but intact, in the back of the hall closet behind the set of matching luggage that she’d used only once when she and Henry went to Niagara Falls. She pulled them on over her slippers. The boots came up over her knees, and even with the slippers they were too big, but they’d do the job. She tucked her pant legs into them. This time, Frank “Sam Snead” Cutler was not going to get away with it.

Cane in hand, Mina clomped back outside and down off the porch to the edge of the marsh. There she paused for a moment, closed her eyes, and replayed the sound of the ball landing. Envisioned the spot. Then she opened her eyes, took a breath. She waded into the tall grass at the edge of the marsh, poking her cane ahead of her as she went.

It was high tide, and the muddy water quickly closed over the tops of her feet. Each time she took a step her boot came out of the muck with a sucking sound. When she reached the spot, she used the cane for balance as she nudged apart the reeds.

There was an empty beer can. A little farther on, a plastic grocery bag. She tucked the can into the bag and tossed them onto her lawn.

A few more steps in, she was over her ankles in mud. The ball had probably sunk beneath the surface, too. If only she’d thought to pull on a pair of rubber gloves, but it was too late for that now. Reluctantly she pushed up her sweater sleeve, bent over, and began rooting around, feeling through the nasty root-clogged slime for something solid. She tried not to inhale the sulfurous marsh gas that wafted up as she disturbed the mud.

She found snails, stones, bits of shell. She was about to give up when she felt something hard and round. Triumphant, she dug it out. A golf ball!

She straightened, swiping aside tendrils of hair with the back of her arm, rage beating in her chest. What did he think, that a golf ball was going to dissolve like a lump of sugar in a cup of hot tea? It would be there for decades, centuries even, assuming it didn’t end up down the gullet of one of the majestic great blue herons that were returning to the marsh in record numbers.