Page 31 of Swan Song

Dixon squares his shoulders. “Ed is always aboveboard.”

Zara is on slippery terrain here. Of course Dixon is loyal to Ed, as he should be, but not at the expense of the investigation.

“What I’d really like is for Chief Kapenash to step away from this investigation,” Zara says. “His last day is Monday. He shouldn’t be taking on the onus of this case, of these two cases, with only a few days left.” She sighs, then blurts out, “It’s like he wants some kind of swan song.”

Dixon says, “There’s no way Ed would walk away from this case. His daughter is friends with the missing woman, so Ed has skin in this game. He understands the connections between all these players better than anyone.” Dixon lowers his voice. “He used to hang out with the Richardsons.”

“He mentioned that,” Zara says.

“He came to their parties. They were… friends, or friendly. But then I think something happened.”

“What?” Zara says. “What happened?”

“Hell if I know. Ed doesn’t gossip.” Dixon pats Zara on the shoulder in the most patronizing way possible. “But you’re right about one thing: This is a hell of a swan song.”

12. Triple Eight

“I’m sure you’ll love the job,” Kacy says to Coco as they drive out to 888 Pocomo Road. “If you need anything, text me; if it’s an emergency, call. Just because these people have money doesn’t mean they own you. Stand up for yourself. Ask about your days off.” Kacy raises her aviators to the top of her head. “Why do I feel like a helicopter parent dropping her only child off at a faraway college?”

Coco is glad Kacy is doing all the freaking out; it means she doesn’t have to. There’s a version of this summer where she just stays in the Kapenashes’ guest room and bums around the island, jobless, with Kacy. The night before, as they ate fish tacos at the Oystercatcher, their feet in the sand, Kacy made a list of the Nantucket summer things they still had to do: There were at least a dozen beaches to lounge on, afternoons at Cisco Brewers with live music and food trucks, rainy days at either the Whaling Museum or the Dreamland Theater, oysters at Cru, a sunset cruise on the Endeavor, singing around the piano at the Club Car, and dancing at the Chicken Box, followed by a late-night Stubbys run. Of course, living that kind of life required an endless stream of cash, and Coco can’t lose sight of her purpose: her script. She wants—needs—Bull to read it, to believe in it, then give it to the people who can green-light it. Every night before she falls asleep, Coco imagines the announcement in Deadline: “Newcomer Colleen Coyle’s First Script ‘Rosebush’ Sold in Competitive Three-Way Auction.”

Kacy lets Coco play her music as they drive; she chooses Twenty One Pilots’ “Stressed Out” and sings along under her breath.

When Kacy pulls into the long white-shell driveway of 888, Coco feels like she’s standing on a precipice. What is it going to be like, not only working but living with the Richardsons? Will she hate it? Will she love it? She has no idea.

Once they park in front of the house, Kacy unloads Coco’s army-green duffel and hands her the white eyelet dress from the Lovely, which is on a hanger, sheathed in protective plastic.

“Do you want me to stay until you get settled?” Kacy asks.

Yes! Coco thinks. “Oh, I should be fine,” she says. She holds her arms out. “How can I ever thank you?”

“I’ll see you in a couple days,” Kacy says. “Just keep me posted.” She gives Coco a hug, then gets in her Jeep, turns around, and heads back out the driveway, blaring “Summertime Sadness” by Lana Del Rey. Coco smiles. She must have planned that.

Coco climbs the steps to the front porch, feeling like a street urchin straight out of Dickens. She knocks on the door with a conviction she doesn’t feel. She bluffed her way into this job by invoking the name of poor Ms. Geraghty; she’s pretty sure the Richardsons are going to figure out she’s a fraud. Coco might be calling Kacy within the hour to come pick her up.

Coco hears footsteps. She prays that it’s Bull; Coco is better at handling men.

The door swings open—Leslee.

Shit, Coco thinks. She beams. “Hey!” she says. “I hope I’m not too early?”

In Coco’s nightmares, Leslee responds in one of the following ways:

Who are you and what are you doing at my twenty-two-million-dollar home?

Or The cutoffs–T-shirt–and–Chuck Taylors look is appropriate if you’re working as a roadie for the Dirty Heads, but you’re a personal concierge—you should be wearing a pencil skirt, heels, pearls.

Or Bull was drunk/just being polite when he offered you the job; neither of us dreamed you’d take it, but you snapped it up like a half-starved tiger with a T-bone, didn’t you?

Or I saw right through your I’m spending the summer on Nantucket too, actually ploy. You’re a scammer, Colleen. You’re a parasite who lives off people who have money and connections.

Or I’m so sorry but we’ve offered the job to someone who knows the island a little better.

But in reality, Leslee radiates serenity. She’s wearing a white tank and white yoga pants; her long chestnut hair is piled on top of her head; her skin is dewy and glowing; her expression is placid. Coco must have caught her just after child’s pose and a green smoothie. “Good morning, Coco, you’re right on time. Just leave your bag on the porch for now. In a little while, we’ll bring it over to the garage apartment where you’ll be staying. But I’ll hang your—dress?—in the hall closet so it won’t get wrinkled.”

Coco steps inside, closes the door behind her. The air-conditioning feels divine; it’s a hot morning already.

And wow—this house.

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