watching the two of you dance around whatever’s going on.” He fired up the boat and slowly backed away from the dock. “Here,” he called and tossed an insulated bag at Katy’s feet. “I packed you some lunch. Have fun.”
Katy glanced at her mom and saw the same slack-jawed surprise she felt on her own face. A warm blush followed, reminding her that, unlike her mother, she knew exactly what Robbie was talking about. “I am so going to kill him.”
“You’re going to have to get in line,” Libby said, also glaring at their only means of leaving the island racing away.
After a few moments, the two women looked back at each other, and Katy instantly smiled when she saw her mother’s eyes narrow. “Why would Robbie go to all this trouble to maroon us out here together?” Libby asked, gesturing in the general direction of the campsite while keeping her eyes locked on Katy.
“How should I—” Katy snapped her mouth shut when those big brown eyes narrowed even more, then hung her head on a sigh. “Because he loves me,” she whispered. She looked up. “And because he loves you. He doesn’t want there to ever be any secrets between us.”
Libby’s face softened, a mixture of anxiety and concern. “What secrets, honey? What is he worried about?”
Katy hung her head, picked up the insulated bag, and walked toward the shore. “Maybe we should have some lunch,” she said.
After she’d laid out every single item Robbie had packed in the bag—ham sandwiches, homemade pickles, thick slices of cheese, and a tin of snickerdoodles—then doled out bottles of water, paper plates, and napkins, Katy finally felt ready to look her mother in the eye. As soon as her pupils landed on the shimmering wall of love looking back at her, the words came and the whole story tumbled from her lips.
Within minutes, her mother knew it all—the real adventure, the man who took advantage, the sordid next morning, complete with her abuser’s brand, and the running and hiding she’d done, particularly from herself. Next, she moved on to what she knew her brother worried about, the reason he’d taken matters into his own hands: her inherited gift. And finally, when she’d purged her body of every secret but the worst one, she pulled that one out like a rotten tooth and laid it at her mother’s feet.
With slow tears and soothing hands, her mother listened. She pursed her lips, wiped her eyes, and squeezed hands tight, both her own and those of her daughter. When the worst of the story came, she reached out and pressed her hand to the side of Katy’s face.
“Oh, my beautiful girl. I’m devastated to know how much you’ve suffered. And I’m so awed by your strength.”
Katy winced. “That wasn’t strength.”
“Oh, but it was, dear girl. Strength on top of strength.”
“And yet, in the end, I’m still sort of a murderer.”
Libby’s head shook in slow, purposeful arcs. “Oh, honey. I don’t think you can ‘sort of’ be a murderer any more than you can ‘sort of’ be pregnant. Either you are, or you aren’t.”
“Then I guess I am.”
Her mother’s eyes grew steely, and she straightened her spine like she meant to do battle. She reached out, gripped her daughter’s arm, and stretched it between them. The flesh, though healed beneath the bandage, seemed to throb with new anger. Katy winced at the memory of the brand, a V turned upside down—Fontanne’s version of a mountain, no doubt—with a tiny letter B at the top, like a flag planted by a victorious climber.
“So you’re keeping that mark to remind yourself that you’re a murderer?”
“Yes. No.” She stood, looked out over Bottomless, and hugged herself. “I don’t know,” she whispered.
“If you keep it, will the man be less dead?”
“No.”
“And if you let me remove it, will you be less of a murderer?”
Katy turned to face her mother. “It’s not that I withheld the information from him that bothers me as much as . . . as why. I’ve heard Papa tell the boys more than once when they spoke of their tours in Afghanistan and Iraq that the intent in a man’s heart when he kills another man—or even an animal—is what’s important. That if he’s killing in anger, or hate, or for revenge, then he’s no better than a murderer.”
“And if he’s defending himself or protecting someone or being a soldier doing his duty?” Libby asked softly. “What is he then?”
Katy smiled sadly. “A hero.”
“And did you