Irene, for one, hadn’t asked any questions. She had happily accepted the money Russ deposited into her renovation account and turned her attention to wallpaper and crown molding. “Are you looking for Todd Croft?”

Barely a nod from Beckett. “Not at liberty to say.”

Yes; the answer was yes. “He’s drinking a daiquiri on some remote island without a name,” Irene says.

“That actually happens less than one would imagine,” Beckett says. “Men like Todd Croft can’t just drop out of society. They’re too power hungry.” Beckett pops the last bite of sandwich into his mouth and polishes off his tea. “Don’t worry. He’ll turn up.”

“I did learn two things on my own,” Irene says, “that you might find helpful.” She’s hesitant to hand over what she knows, but Russ’s words have taken root inside of her. Irene is the only person I trust to do the right thing. He probably meant the right thing for Rosie and Maia but he most certainly also meant the right thing morally, which was to cooperate with the FBI, tell the truth, preserve her own integrity, protect the boys. “We have a bank account at Federal Republic. I have a statement I can give you. And the teller informed me that Russ made the last two deposits of seventy-five hundred dollars apiece…in cash.” Irene searches Agent Beckett’s face to see if this news startles him as much as it startled her, but he doesn’t even blink. Of course, he’s in the FBI. He has seen…Irene can’t even imagine what. “And I asked my attorney, Ed, Edward Sorley, to find the account that Russ used to pay for this house when we bought it. He has a copy of a cashier’s check drawn on a bank—MGST or something like that—in the Cayman Islands.”

Agent Beckett’s left eyebrow lifts a fraction of an inch. “Sounds about right,” he says. “Would you give me Mr. Sorley’s contact information, please?”

The FBI agents leave at eight thirty that night. As they’re finally heading out the door—with far less evidence than they anticipated, Irene can tell by their dejected demeanors—she suggests that they go to the Wig and Pen for dinner.

“Great wings,” she says. “My mother-in-law…” But she can’t finish the sentence.

Agent Beckett shakes her hand. “Thank you for your help today.”

Irene finds herself uncharacteristically craving validation. She was helpful, right? They’re aware from how cooperative and accommodating she’s been, from the details she’s shared, and from her general demeanor that she had no idea what Russ was involved with. She is innocent. She should not be held accountable—and yet she fears that she’ll see these men again storming her house in the predawn hours with a warrant for her arrest.

Their visit today has taken its toll; she’s scared.

“Will you be back tomorrow?” she asks.

“Someone will be by to drop off your phone and your computer,” he says. “Here’s my card. Don’t hesitate to call if you think of anything else you want to tell us.”

Irene waits ten minutes, then fifteen. When she’s positive the agents are not coming back, she snaps off the porch light and heads for the library.

The house phone rings, startling her.

Should she answer?

It’s probably Cash, wondering why she isn’t answering her cell phone. Well, honey, the FBI has it…

“Irene?”

“Lydia,” Irene says. She carries the phone into the library, where she snaps on the Tiffany lamp and collapses in her favorite reading chair. “Hi.”

“I got your texts,” Lydia says. “But then you didn’t answer when I called. You can’t…be serious? Russ is not dead! You would have told me right away if you’d found out he was dead. It was just hyperbole, right? You wish he were dead. What did he do wrong? He was away somewhere, right?”

“The Virgin Islands,” Irene says. The conversation feels like a hill she doesn’t want to climb.

“The…where? Did you tell me Russ was in the Virgin Islands? You didn’t tell me that. I would have remembered.”

Irene closes her eyes. This is just as excruciating as she feared it would be. She has made things far worse by waiting for so long. Lydia doesn’t believe her; Irene should have called her right away. Irene should have brought her—or someone—in at the beginning. But she hadn’t. It had been so sudden and so bizarre, so inexplicable. It was still inexplicable—and yet, here they are.

“Lydia,” Irene says. “Russ is dead. He was killed in a helicopter crash in the Virgin Islands on January first. He was there on business. The rest of the details are too painful to share right now. His body was cremated and the boys and I flew down to scatter his ashes.”

“What?” Lydia shouts. There’s a muffled voice in the background. “Brandon and I are on our way over right now.”

“No,” Irene says. “Please, I was just heading up to bed. We’ll talk tomorrow, I promise.” She thinks for a second. “Brandon who?”

“Brandon the barista,” Lydia says. “We’re dating. We’ve been dating since…that night.”

Irene supposes it’s too late to ask Lydia to keep the news of Russ’s death to herself. “I’ll call you tomorrow, really. I…I have to go.”

“Okay,” Lydia says. She sounds put out, and then she starts to cry. “I’m so sorry, Irene. I’m sure you’re destroyed. Russ was…well, you know he was the most devoted husband.”

Wasn’t he just, Irene thinks. “Good night, Lydia.” She punches off the phone, sighs deeply, then turns her attention to the library shelves. Three shelves in from the right, three shelves down from the ceiling, Irene finds the Oxford English Dictionary that she lugged to college, Roget’s Thesaurus, and Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations in a solid, scholarly stack. She moves the three massive tomes onto the brocade sofa and slides the panel out of the back of the shelf to reveal a secret compartment. And voilà! There’s a manila envelope, stuffed full.

Irene had forgotten all about the secret compartment until she started thinking about hiding places. The secret compartment had been original to this room, and even though the library had undergone a complete overhaul, Russ had insisted the compartment stay. It added character and history—they agreed it had probably been used to hide alcohol during Prohibition. It was one of the only aspects of the house Russ had taken a personal interest in.

What will we hide in there? Irene had asked.

Love notes, he’d said.

She remembers that, clear as day. Love notes.

She pulls out the manila envelope and empties the contents onto the coffee table. It’s a stack of postcards secured with a rubber band. For one second, Irene holds out hope that the postcards are family heirlooms, maybe the correspondence that Milly conducted with Russ’s father while he was away in the navy. But once she wrangles the rubber band off, she sees the pictures on the postcards are all of St. John—Cinnamon Bay, Maho Bay, Francis Bay, Hansen Bay.

None of the cards is addressed. On the back of each is a short, simple message. I love you. I’ll miss you. You are my heart. I’ll be here waiting. I love you. I love you. I love you. All of them are signed with the initials M.L.