The plane came to a standstill at the gate, and Rory unfastened his seat belt and stood up to reach into the overhead bin. He pulled out the backpack and handed it to his son, who was still buckled into his seat and looked disinclined to leave the plane. Zack stared out the window, tapping out an imagined drumbeat on his knee. He was fifteen years old and annoyed at the prospect of spending the entire summer with his father on the East Coast. It had been a painful flight, at least for Rory, who had vainly tried every ploy he could think of to get his son to talk to him.

“Come on,” Rory said.

“Let’s go find our rental car and get on the road.”

With a loud sigh, Zack unbuckled his seat belt and followed Rory down the aisle.

“Welcome to Norfolk, Mr. Taylor,” the flight attendant said as Rory passed her to leave the plane. She’d chatted with him off and on during the flight from Los Angeles, telling him how True Life Stories was her favorite show on TV. He doubted that was true, but as host and producer of the popular show, he was accustomed to the adulation.

Women tended to know him from television, men from his days on the football field. Either way, he attracted attention, and even that seemed to irritate Zack. “We can never go anywhere without people staring at us,” he’d said when the third or fourth passenger on the plane had approached Rory for an autograph.

“Welcome to Nor-fuck,” Zack said now, under his breath, and Rory pretended not to hear him.

They checked in at the car-rental counter, and there was a subdued flurry of excitement between the two female clerks as they recognized their customer.

“You reserved a Jeep,” one of the clerks said as she checked his reservation.

“You did?” Zack sounded incredulous.

“Sure,” Rory said. He’d specifically requested a Jeep. It would give them room for their considerable luggage, plus, he knew a Jeep would please Zack. If Zack was pleased, though, the boy was determined not to show it.

The Jeep was tomato-red and looked new. Rory spread his map over the steering wheel and studied the route they would take to the Outer Banks.

“It’s an easy drive,” he told his son, who said nothing in reply.

It was only an hour and a half from Norfolk to Kill Devil Hills, and Zack was no easier to talk with in the car than he had been on the plane. Rory gave up after a while, deciding to simply enjoy the scenery on this much-changed road, with its antique stores and vegetable stands. Zack pressed the scan button on the car radio, hunting for a station that was not too “pitiful.”

Rory had his hopes pinned on this summer. He’d been divorced from Glorianne, Zack’s mother, for nearly two years, and he and Glorianne had joint custody of Zack. Technically, at least. Rory was supposed to have Zack for weekends, holidays and summers. But several months ago, Glorianne had married the movie producer with whom she’d been having an affair during her marriage to Rory, and she now had a house in Beverly Hills, along with every other material possession she could desire. Rory found himself unable to compete with the glitzy, seductive new life-style Zack was enjoying in Glorianne’s home. Zack was at that age where possessions and grandeur mattered. He was slipping away from his father, and Rory hoped that this summer would bring him back. Rory knew that behind his son’s offensive, defensive adolescent facade, Zack was still hurting from the divorce and angry with both his parents for letting it happen. Intellectually, Rory understood all that. He just didn’t know what to do about it.

“So,” Zack asked dryly as he poked at the scan button, “are we there yet?”

“Another twenty minutes, I’d guess,” Rory said.

“This road we’re on used to be narrow and sleepy, with just a few vegetable stands along it.”

“It still looks narrow and sleepy to me,” Zack said. He was a true Southern California kid. Anything tamer than the San Diego Freeway was going to look sleepy to him.

Rory didn’t bother to argue. He knew Zack hated hearing about the way “things used to be,” and he supposed he hadn’t cared for that sort of conversation, either, when he was Zack’s age.

“I miss L.A. already,” Zack said, gazing out the car window.

“Well, we haven’t reached the Outer Banks yet.”

“I still don’t get why we had to come here,” Zack said.

Rory thought he’d explained his reasons for spending the summer in Kill Devil Hills to his son, but either Zack hadn’t heard them or they hadn’t been persuasive enough for him to remember. “Well, you know I spent my summers here when I was a kid,” he said.

“Right. And it’s got some kind of nostalgic pull on you or something.”

“That’s true.” Rory tried not to sound defensive.

“It was a very special place for me. I still own my family’s old cottage there, and I haven’t seen it since I was seventeen.”

“You mean the cottage has just been standing there, empty all this time? Won’t it be rotted out by now?”

“I sure hope not,” Rory said.

“I’ve had a real estate agency looking after it. They’ve rented it to people visiting the beach, and supposedly they’ve taken care of the upkeep, as well. I guess we’ll see about that soon.” That was something he was worried about.

“You could have come back for, like, a week or even just a couple of days to check on the cottage,” Zack said.

“Instead we have to stay here the whole stupid summer.”

“I have a good reason for wanting to stay the summer,” Rory said, glancing at his son. This part of his plan he had not told him.

“There’s an old incident I want to research here for True Life Stories. Want to hear what it is?”

Zack shrugged. “When I was fourteen, a baby was found on the beach close to my cottage. She was a newborn. The little girl across the street found her early in the morning and brought her back to her cottage. The police got involved, of course, but they were never able to figure out who had left the baby there. A few months ago, I received a letter from the baby, who’s grown up now, of course.”

“What did she want?” Zack actually sounded interested.

“She said she knows I try to solve old mysteries on True Life Stories and that I’d lived near where she was found. She said she always wanted to know who her mother was and asked if I could try to figure it out.” He glanced at Zack again.

“The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to do it,” he continued.

“I’d always wondered about that incident, especially lately. You know how we’ve been hearing about all these teenage girls having their babies and trying to flush them down toilets or leave them in Dumpsters as if they were nothing more than a Popsicle wrapper? Doesn’t it make you angry when you hear things like that?” He didn’t wait for a response from Zack; he didn’t expect one.

“It’s impossible for me to imagine that sort of cruelty. When I hear those stories on the news, it makes me remember that baby. Shelly, her name is.”

“So, where does this… Shelly live?” Zack asked.

“She was adopted by the family of the girl who found her, and apparently she still lives in the house on the cul-de-sac.” He tried to remember the name of that cottage, but failed.

“At least, that was the return address on the envelope.” Shelly had given him very little information. It had been a short letter—more of a plea, actually.

“She was only about three years old the last time I saw her.” Rory remembered a slender little girl with long platinum hair and large, brown eyes. Even as a teenager, he’d thought it was odd to see that leggy little waif living in the midst of the dark, exotic-looking Cato family. He’d forgotten her name until receiving the letter, remembering only that it was Sandy or Shelly, something to do with the beach.

“I never wrote back to her,” Rory said.

“I thought I’d surprise her, instead.”

The long bridge across Currituck Sound was directly ahead of them, and Rory felt a rush of excitement.

“Kitty Hawk is on the other side of this bridge,” he said to Zack.

“And right next to Kitty Hawk is Kill Devil Hills.”

After crossing the bridge, Rory spotted one of the milepost markers along the road and smiled. “People here locate things by the milepost markers,” he said.

“Watch the side of the road, there. The next marker should be 3. Our cottage is between milepost 7 and 8.” He was secretly glad of the markers. He wasn’t sure he could remember where to turn, especially since the landmarks had changed drastically since he’d last been here.

“There’s 3,” Zack said.

“Uh-huh.” Rory could not help but feel some disappointment at what he was seeing. This portion of the Outer Banks was overgrown. The landscape was dotted with the trademark cottages on stilts, the main road was littered with shops and restaurants, and there were far too many people and cars.

“What’s that?” Zack pointed ahead of them in the distance and Rory saw the obelisk jutting up from one of the hills after which Kill Devil Hills was named.

“It’s the Wright Brothers’ Memorial,” Rory said.

“This is where they took their first flight, nearly a hundred years ago.”

“That’s cool,” Zack acknowledged, as if finally admitting there might be some small reason to like this place.

After passing milepost 7, Rory turned the Jeep toward the ocean and drove a short distance to the beach road. He turned right, hoping that was the correct choice, and in a moment he saw the cul-de-sac on his left.

“Here we are,” he said, turning into the short, broad cul-de-sac.

After the jarring sights on Route 158, he felt enormous relief. The cul-de-sac looked the same as it had when he was a child, and nostalgia washed over him. The same handful of cottages was there—less one. The cottage at the end of the cul-de-sac, the one built right on the beach, was gone. Cindy Trump’s cottage. He could picture her even more readily than he could her cottage. She’d been a couple of years older than him, with sun-bleached hair, a killer tan and the skimpiest bikini in Kill Devil Hills.