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closest to the missing. They were at the center of each small group. By contrast, a gray-haired man stood alone at the very end of the dock. His hands were anchored in the pockets of a worn brown jacket that hung over loose corduroy pants.
    “Matthew Crane,” Zoe said, following her gaze. “The Amelia Celeste is his. He’s probably wishing he’d been at the helm himself, instead of Greg. Greg has a young family.”
    Julia was trying to absorb that information when the woman with the cell phone said on a note of accusation, “It was Artie Jones’s racer. They’re picking up purple debris.”
    Again Zoe explained to Julia, “Artie’s up from Portsmouth. He has a house down on the shaft. You remember.”
    Julia did. Big Sawyer was shaped like an ax. It was broadest and most densely populated at its head, which included the harbor, near the flat of the blade, the fishing village, which climbed the wooded hill, and, at the back of the head, viewing open ocean, the artists’ homes. The shaft, extending off to the southeast, was long and narrow. Seasonal residents lived there, putting a certain distance between the lavishness of their homes and boats and the down-to-earth functionality of the locals. The arrangement suited both groups just fine.
    “Artie made it big in the Internet boom,” Zoe went on, “and if he suffered when the whole thing went bust, you’d never know it. His house is huge. No expense was spared.” She caught a breath. “If it was The Beast, Artie was the one at the helm. No one else drives that boat. He’s out there, too.”
    “Is his family here?” Julia asked softly.
    “No,” answered the woman. “They don’t move up until the kids finish school. Artie comes alone to open the house and put The Beast in the water.” She looked past them. A boat had come in and was approaching the dock, drawing the crowd. “There’s the Willa B . Looks like she has someone.” She set off.
    That someone, Zoe told Julia as soon as she made the identity, was Kim Colella. She was standing on her own steam and appeared to be unhurt. Wrapped in a large towel with her hair soaked and her head bowed, she looked to Julia to be little more than a child, but when, in a voice tinged with horror, she said just that, Zoe was quick to correct her.
    “Kimmie’s twenty-one and tends bar at the Grill. Life hasn’t been easy for her. She was raised by her mother and grandmother. They’re two tough ladies.”
    Julia felt a tug of protectiveness, not only because her own daughter was close to Kimmie’s age, but because Kimmie Colella didn’t look tough at all. Her chin stayed low as she was helped from the boat to the dock, and when a barrage of questions hit her, she recoiled. Huddled into herself, she let the doctor guide her away.
    The boat that had delivered her was already heading back out. “How long can they search?” Julia asked, because it was fully dark now.
    “Awhile. They have floodlights.”
    Julia had been frightened enough out there in daylight; she couldn’t begin to imagine the terror of being in the water at night. Moving closer to Zoe, she tucked her hands in the pockets of the fleece jacket. “Maybe other survivors have been taken to the mainland?”
    Zoe’s eyes were understanding, but she didn’t offer easy comfort. “We’d know,” she said gently, even apologetically. “Someone would’ve called. Are you sure I can’t take you home?”
    “I’m sure.”
    “Does your arm hurt?”
    “No.” But she didn’t think she would notice if it did. The emerging horror dwarfed aches and pains.
    “Want something to eat from the Grill?”
    “I don’t think I can eat.”
    “Coffee, then?”
    Julia gave in on that, though she didn’t drink much. She had adrenaline enough in her body without caffeine, but the warmth of the cup in her hands did feel good. As time passed, though, that warmth faded, along with the hope that others would be brought in alive. And still she resisted when Zoe