me back to a dreadful time.
I was nineteen. In an instant, both my parents had died. After the initial shock, I insisted that the incident was not an accident. My mom and dad would’ve checked that sub a dozen times and so would their pilot, someone they’d done similar dives with a dozen times. But the authorities wouldn’t listen to a grieving daughter.
I couldn’t investigate then. But I would now.
The list on my whiteboard was a start. Of the names I’d listed, Ryan was the most obvious person to talk to. But waiting a day was a good idea. Ryan was one of the kindest men I knew, and gossip that he’d intentionally harmed Peter pissed me off. Overwrought with guilt and shame, he was probably in his own hell.
I’d give Ryan a bit of time.
John Hamilton’s name was below Ryan’s. There were a few reasons why he might be a good person to start with. First, it was odd that he was on Intrepid since he wasn’t a scientist. Also, it was Seymour’s idea for him to come along. Given what Betty told me about Seymour’s past, that might mean something—or nothing. And Hamilton was on deck when the buoy fell on Peter. Maybe he saw something. Finally, John Hamilton owned an aquaculture company, something that genuinely interested me. That added up to four reasons to talk with him.
Tapping a pencil against my thigh, I tried to come up with a credible purpose for my visit to Hamilton’s facility. Maybe I claim to be curious about aquaculture. That was pretty lame. There must be a better excuse. My brain felt fried, and none came to mind. I needed food—something sweet. And Angelo had asked me to stop by.
I bought a quart of my favorite gelato—strawberry balsamic—and drove to his house. The latest Spruce Harbor Gazette was on the table in Angelo’s kitchen. I scanned the front page and waited for his take on the gelato.
Angelo looked at his bowl and wrinkled his nose. “Who puts balsamic vinegar in ice cream?”
The headline piece of the Gazette caught my attention, so it took me a few seconds to respond. “It’s good. Give it a try.”
He sampled a tiny bit. “Huh, you wouldn’t expect this to be so tasty.”
“Glad you like it. Did you see this?” I pointed to the headline—“Local Seaweed Farm Wins”—and slid the paper over to him.
Angelo dipped into the gelato again and leaned over to read the article. “Could be hype.”
“Yeah. Sunnyside Aquaculture successfully develops a super-seaweed. Maine scientists triumph. Etcetera.”
Angelo put down his spoon, leaned back in his chair, and crossed his arms. “With all that’s going on, why the sudden interest in aquaculture?”
I relayed what Betty had said about MOI, plus my disappointment with the Coast Guard’s inquiry.
He frowned. “I’ve known Betty Buttz for what, forty years? Hate to think of MOI like that. But she’s shrewd and might be right.”
“Betty suggested I explore on my own. Like she would. I thought I’d poke around, see if anything comes up.”
He eyed me. “And poke around means…?”
“I’m trying to figure that out. Basically, I’ll look into a few things.”
“Like what?”
I explained why it made sense to talk with John Hamilton. “The problem is I need a credible reason to go up there.” I glanced down at the Gazette. “This aquaculture place. It’s John Hamilton’s business.”
“So?”
“Here’s my reason. I’ll say I want to know more about the super-seaweed for my Oceanography class. You know, local sustainability ventures. Students love that stuff.”
Angelo ran his fingers through his hair. “Seems like a long shot to me, talking to this John Hamilton. What could aquaculture have to do with Peter’s death? But I don’t see what harm’s in it.”
I was up at five the next morning and seated at my office desk by seven. It hadn’t been the most restful night. Peter and I had discovered the Prospect Institute email only a few hours before the buoy debacle, and that crisis overshadowed everything else. During the night, worries about the email hacking and its implications for my career resurfaced with a vengeance.
I poked my head into the hallway. Ted’s door, five offices down, wasn’t open. MOI had lured Ted from Duke University because of his pioneering work on ocean acidification and marine organisms. We’d only spoken briefly on the cruise, but he seemed like a good guy and had offered to help me. This was my chance to get to know him.
I returned to my desk and emailed him.
Morning, Ted. Wondering when you’ll be in. I need the name of your contact at the Portland Ledger.
Three minutes later, he responded.
Be there by eight.
At 7:55, Ted walked in and placed a cup next to my computer.
“Thanks. What is it?”
“Decaf latte. I emailed you from the Neap Tide and asked Sally what you usually had.”
I opened the lid and sipped the milky brew. “Mmm…terrific.”
Ted carried a chair over to my desk and sat down. He wore a button-down blue cotton shirt open at the neck with the sleeves rolled up, jeans, and running shoes. With one hand, he pushed dirty blond hair up off his face. His tan set off startlingly blue eyes.
Once more, I envisioned Ted and Harvey as a striking couple.
I ran a finger down my ponytail and got stuck in a tangle halfway down.
“Haven’t seen you since we got back,” he said. “How’re you doing?”
“It’s hard. But Harvey and Angelo—he’s my godfather—they’ve been great. How ’bout you?”
“I told my parents what happened—they’re down in Boston. They try to be helpful but don’t understand.” He shrugged.
“If you need to talk, don’t hesitate to stop by.”
His smile was warm. “I might do that. You want my friend’s name. But tell me. The Prospect Institute email. What’re you most worried about?”
I swallowed. My mouth tasted metallic and dry. “The other scientists on the list are older and established. It’s my credibility as a researcher. You know, respect. Getting grants.”
“Colleagues know you haven’t cooked the data. But someone might believe it.”
“Or use it against me even if they didn’t.”
“Well, something’s just happened I’m guessing will sideline the Prospect Institute. A much bigger server hacking. Hundreds of emails between top climate change researchers from the U.S. and Britain.”
I felt
