full of questions, mainly for Daria. They sat with her on the screened porch of the Sea Shanty and went over and over the details of her discovery until she herself began to feel guilty, as though she had done something terribly wrong and would be hauled off to jail any moment. After questioning her for nearly half an hour, they sent her inside while they spoke with her parents and Aunt Josie. Daria sat on the wicker chair in the living room, the one right next to the window that opened onto the porch, so she could listen to whatever the grown-ups had to say.
“Can you tell us what teenage girls live on this cul-de-sac?” one of the policemen asked.
Aunt Josie began ticking them off. “That cottage there on the beach,” she said, “There’s a fast girl lives there. Cindy Trump. I’ve heard the boys call her Cindy Tramp, because she’s easy, if you know what I mean.”
“Oh, you shouldn’t say that, Josie,” Daria’s mother scolded.
“But I saw her yesterday,” Daria’s father said. “She didn’t look pregnant to me.”
Daria leaned her cheek against the wicker back of the chair, positioning herself to hear better. This was fascinating talk.
“I saw her, too,” Aunt Josie said. “She had on a big white shirt, like a man’s shirt. She could have been hiding anything under there.”
Daria could almost hear her father’s shrug of defeat. Aunt Josie had been married to his brother, who had died five years ago, and she always seemed to get her way with Daria’s dad.
Aunt Josie began speaking again. “There’s that girl Linda, who—”
“She’s only fourteen,” Daria’s mother protested. “And she’s so shy. Why, she can’t even talk to the boys, much less…” Her voice trailed off.
“We’d still like to know what girls are on the cul-de-sac,” one of the policemen said. “Whether you think they could be the mother of that baby or not. How about in this cottage? Any girls besides Supergirl? Daria?”
Supergirl? Daria grinned to herself.
“Yes,” Daria’s father said, “but they’re good Catholic girls.”
“My daughter, Ellen, is fifteen,” Aunt Josie said. “And I can assure you she was not pregnant.”
“Same for our daughter, Chloe.” Daria’s father sounded insulted that Chloe might be considered a suspect. “She goes to Catholic University. Got in when she was only sixteen, so you can guess she spends most of her time hitting the books.”
Daria wasn’t so sure about that. Chloe was smart enough to get good grades without doing much studying.
“Anyone else?” one of the officers asked.
“In this cottage?” Aunt Josie asked. “No, but there’s a couple more girls on this block. There’s Polly across the street.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Josie,” Daria’s mother said. “She’s mentally retarded. Do you really think—”
“She’s right to tell us,” one of the policemen said. “Who else?” He and Aunt Josie sounded like old buddies.
“I think the only other one is that Jill girl,” Aunt Josie said.
“She’s the Fletcher girl.” Daria’s mother’s sounded resigned. Every girl on the cul-de-sac was going to be on that list, whether she wanted them to be or not.
Daria saw Chloe descending the stairs from the second story and put her finger to her lips. Chloe frowned as she reached the living room. She walked over to her sister on bare feet.
“What’s going on?” she whispered, trying to peer out the window onto the porch.
“Don’t let them see you!” Daria grabbed a fistful of her sister’s wild black hair to pull her head down.
“Ouch.” Chloe extricated herself from Daria’s grasp. “Why are the cops here?”
“I found a baby on the beach,” Daria said.
“You found what?”
“Shh,” Daria said. But before she could explain further, their father stepped into the room.
“Chloe, good, you’re here,” he said. His hair was mussed now. He could never keep it looking neat for long. “I was just coming in to get you. You and Ellen need to answer a few questions for the police.”
“Why?” Chloe looked surprised. Her usual olive complexion had a waxy cast to it in the pale morning light, and Daria guessed she was nervous about having to talk to policemen.
“It’s all right,” Daria said. “I talked to them for a long time. They’re pretty nice.” Of course, though, I’m Supergirl.
“Get Ellen,” her father said to Chloe, who rolled her eyes and offered him a look of disdain before stomping up the stairs. That defiant attitude was brand-new. Chloe had been away at college all this year, only joining the family at the Sea Shanty a few days ago, and Daria had not yet adjusted to the change in her sister. Chloe had always been her parents’ pride and joy, with her straight-A report card and adherence to their rules. Suddenly, she was acting as though she didn’t need parents at all.
“And you.” Daria’s father looked straight at her, and she knew she’d been caught eavesdropping at the window. “You go on upstairs now. You must be tired. It’s already been a long morning for you.”
Daria did not want to go upstairs; she wanted to hear what the police would say to Chloe and Ellen, and she should be able to. She was eleven now, not that anyone seemed to have remembered. And if it hadn’t been for her, this whole commotion wouldn’t be happening at all. But her dad had that stern look on his face that told her she’d better not argue.
She passed Ellen and Chloe on her way up the stairs. Ellen wore the same pale-faced look as Chloe, and they said nothing to her as she passed them. But when she was nearly to the second story, she heard Chloe call out to her.
“Hey, Daria,” she said. “Happy birthday, sis.”
When she reached the upstairs hallway, Daria sat down on the top step, trying to remain within hearing range of the voices downstairs. She could tell who was talking, but little of what was said, and her mind began to wander. She thought about what she’d told the police, playing the interview over and over in her mind. If you lied to the police, could you be arrested? Would they arrest an eleven-year-old girl? She had not actually lied, she reassured herself. She had simply left out one fact—one small, probably insignificant piece of the story: the baby was not all she had found on the beach that morning.
1
Twenty-two years later
DARIA’S THIRTY-THIRD BIRTHDAY WAS NOT MUCH DIFFERENT from any other early June day. Life was slowly returning to the Outer Banks as vacationers trickled into the coastal communities, and it seemed the air and sea grew warmer by the hour. Daria spent the day with her co-worker and fellow carpenter, Andy Kramer, remodeling the kitchen of a house in Nag’s Head. She installed cabinets and countertops, all the while battling the melancholia that had been her companion for
