“What would that be?”
“I’ll go down there with you later, if you like, and make sure.”
“That would be nice. Thank you.”
She had a formality about her, he thought, that was touching.
“Want some coffee?”
“Sure.”
He measured out coffee, turning on the percolator. The smell filled the room, along with the smell of salt and old wood.
He poured her a cup of coffee, remembering that she liked cream and sugar. He put these on the table. He wanted her to feel cared for.
“Where do you think I should start?” she asked.
Larry was laying a fire. He sat back on his slippered heels as he set another piece of kindling on the pile.
“Well, you could try to get his records,” he said, picking up one last piece of kindling, “but it’s almost impossible to get child welfare records for someone else. Not without a court order, at least.”
“That’s what they told me when I called.”
Outside, a tempestuous spring swirled. One moment it was all gray clouds and sleety wind; the next the sky opened and the sun ran down the mountains and shared in the glory.
“What else?” she asked.
He looked up at her. In the spring light, his face looked shaggy and old. “There’s got to be a story,” he said, and then explained when he saw the confusion in her face. “It’s how we were trained to think. A narrative. The story of what happened. Why was Dennis on the beach that day? Didn’t he see the signs? Was there an adult present? There had to be an investigation into what happened.”
She nodded eagerly.
“Is there a cop here?” she asked.
“Not here in Eagle Cove. There’s a constable in the next town over, Wheel Stone. He supervises three towns, spread along this coast.”
“That’s a lot, isn’t it?”
“Depends.”
“Can we talk to him?” she asked.
“Good question. I’ll make some calls.”
Larry took his phone outside because the reception was better. When he returned, Amanda was still sitting in front of the fire.
“I reached that constable,” he said. “He says we can come anytime. Even right now, if you want.”
He liked the expression on her face then. She looked calm with satisfaction. Nature had found a course: it was forward.
Constable Roberts was in his early sixties, with a thick head of black hair threaded with silver. He sat behind a scratched wooden desk, the walls behind him covered with old-timey pictures of fishing boats. A net hung in the corner held a collection of glass fishing floats and buoys.
“Yes, I remember that case,” the constable said. “You’re his sister?” he asked, his eyes casting to Amanda.
“Yes,” she said.
Larry spoke up. “She’s trying to learn more about him.”
“I don’t know much about Dennis,” Amanda said. “He was taken from our mother before I was born, and somehow ended up in that center.”
