The surf boomed deep in my ears as the Vespa squealed up the beach road to the Modge Bay lighthouse near the float house my mother owned before she died. Now it was mine, when I wanted it.
Over toward the right, the Indian nation slept. I would sleep that night on the float house, tucked under a white duvet on the second floor, rocked with the rain and the ocean, lulled by the sound of the old lighthouse like a Swiss alpenhorn.
The Powolskis had let me go home on a pass for good behavior, ha. My fingers gripped the handlebars. The Vespa"s wheels flew over the gravelly road.
I felt little gratitude to the Powolskis or to Lorne. I had earned my keep.
I parked the Vespa and tossed stones at the giant cypresses in the rain forest at the top of the hill. I thought over the possible suspects
