Gavin narrowed his eyes at Lock’s turned back. Affair? It just wasn’t possible. Claire came in all the time looking like she had just spent six weeks in Outward Bound but hadn’t had time for her back-to-civilization shower. This was not the way a woman presented herself to a lover (Gavin had bedded fourteen women in his lifetime, none of them special, but all of them clean). Besides, Claire wasn’t Lock’s type—and it wasn’t only the fact that she looked like she got dressed in a dark closet. She was too casual a person for Lock, she was too comfortable and chummy; she wasn’t refined. If Gavin had suggested to Daphne that Lock was having an affair with Claire Crispin, Daphne would have laughed wickedly and unleashed an invective about Claire that would have made even Gavin uncomfortable, and “unwashed” would have been the nicest of it. Daphne worried about Lock and Isabelle French, and she was correct to worry because Isabelle French was classically beautiful and polished . . . and newly single. (Gavin was interested in Isabelle himself, though she was way, way, way, way, way out of his league.) But Isabelle hadn’t been to the island in months, and she rarely called. When she did call, Lock sometimes asked Gavin to take a message; otherwise the conversations were terse, with Lock conveying unmistakable impatience.

No, Gavin told Daphne with full confidence. Nothing is going on between Lock and Isabelle French.

But now there was this vibe, this near certainty that Lock, like Gavin, had a secret. Look at him, tapping his foot against the ancient radiator. That was a nervous tic. Gavin recognized it because he monitored himself for nervous tics all the time: the humming, the knuckle cracking, the licking of the teeth, the compulsive checking of his pants pocket: Was the cash still there, all of it? It took a criminal to recognize a criminal, and Gavin recognized a criminal.

“Okay,” Lock said to Claire. “I’ll follow up. Yep, see you.” He hung up.

“How is Claire?” Gavin said. He asked as nonchalantly as possible. Maybe he was just projecting: doing a bad thing came so easily for him that he assumed it would come easily for others.

Lock smiled. Fondly? Guiltily? Gavin couldn’t tell.

“Oh,” he said. “She’s fine.”

Carter won nineteen hundred dollars on March Madness—which was, he informed Siobhan, a basketball tournament, and a very big deal in America. Siobhan was beside herself about the gambling, even at the win, even after Carter pulled five bills off his wad of hundreds and said, “Go shopping.”

Siobhan did exactly that, despite the fact that she should have put the money right into the bank to hedge against future losses, despite the fact that she should have thrown the money in Carter’s face and told him, point-blank, that he had a problem. The month of March had been dismal for Siobhan—there was no work, only an endless string of hours spent with the kids at the ice rink eating cardboard pizza and stale popcorn and drinking flat diet soda. Claire had been strange and distant—working all the time in the hot shop on the project for the summer gala, attending her “meetings” at night. Twice now, when Siobhan had called to see if Claire wanted to go to 56 Union for a glass of cabernet and a pile of crispy, hot frites, Claire had turned her down, saying she had a “meeting.”

Siobhan said, “Who goes to these meetings? Everyone? Or just you and Lock?”

There was a pause. Then Claire said, “There’s a committee.”

Her tone of voice contained the accusation that while technically Siobhan was on the “committee,” she had yet to attend a single meeting. And wouldn’t attend, either, Siobhan thought haughtily. Until they were offered the catering job.

The fact of the matter was, things between Claire and Siobhan had not been right since the day Siobhan caught Claire and Lock heading into the forest at Tupancy Links and Claire flat-out denied it. It was an egregious lie—but it wasn’t the lie, per se, that bothered Siobhan. It was that the lie covered up a slew of other lies. What were all the meetings for? What happened at these meetings? Jason was perhaps too close to see the writing on the wall, but Siobhan could read it. Something was going on. Why wasn’t Claire owning up to it? Claire was hiding something, and Siobhan was offended and hurt by this; she was angry at Claire and angry at herself. Siobhan was too sarcastic, maybe, or too tough—the result of learning to survive as one of eight children—and Claire was as soft as the center of a fancy chocolate. She was afraid to confide in Siobhan. Siobhan was dying to ask Claire, How do you feel about Lock? Do you like working with him? You spend a lot of time together. Do you have feelings for him? Claire’s relationship with Lock seemed to be reaching beyond the normal, beyond the everyday; it seemed to have taken on an intimacy that overstepped the appropriate. But Siobhan was not brave enough to bring it up with Claire. And so they were at an impasse. Claire would not confide in Siobhan about Lock; Siobhan would not confide in Claire about Carter’s gambling or anything else. Their friendship was suffering. It had been a brutal winter.

Siobhan took the five hundred dollars from Carter, stuffed it in her jeans pocket, and went into town. As she was leaving the house, Carter said, Buy yourself something pretty! Like he was a gangster and she his moll. What a joke.

Saturday afternoon in the middle of March: Federal Street was deserted—the place was a ghost town—and yet there, parked on the street, was Claire’s car. Siobhan saw it as she walked into Eye of the Needle. This was Claire’s favorite store; maybe they would bump into each other and go to the Brotherhood for a Baileys. But Claire was not in the store. Siobhan stepped outside and called Claire’s cell phone, and it went straight to voice mail. Instinctively, Siobhan knew that Claire was at the Nantucket’s Children office on Union Street—she just knew it. Why not go and see for herself, and end the questions once and for all? Siobhan felt like Nancy Drew, girl sleuth; she felt like Angela fucking Lansbury.