The Edge of the Light

VIKING

An imprint of Penguin Random House, LLC

375 Hudson Street

New York, New York 10014

First published in the United States of America by Viking, an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, 2016

Copyright © 2016 by Susan Elizabeth George

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

eBook ISBN 9780698169739

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGI
NG-IN-PUBLICATION DA
TA

Names: George, Elizabeth, date– author.

Title: The edge of the light / by Elizabeth George.

Description: New York : Viking Books, published by Penguin Group, [2016] |

Sequel to: The edge of the shadows. | Summary: “In the final book of the Whidbey Island saga, events build to an astonishing climax as secrets are revealed, hearts are broken, and lives are changed forever”—Provided by publisher.

Identifiers: LCCN 2015044545 | ISBN 9780670012992 (hardback)

Subjects: | CYAC: Mystery and detective stories. | Secrets—Fiction. |

Whidbey Island (Wash.)—Fiction. | BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Mysteries & Detective Stories. | JUVENILE FICTION / Law & Crime.

Classification: LCC PZ7.G29315 Ee 2016 | DDC [Fic]—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2015044545

In loving memory of GA

But this swift business

I must uneasy make, lest too light winning

Make the prize light.

—W
ILLIAM
S
HAKE
SPEARE
,
T
HE
T
EMPEST

H
ospitals were bad, but rehab centers were worse. In a hospital, rotten stuff that happened to people at least got dealt with pronto and you ended up knowing what the outcome was going to be. You had a car wreck, you got carted to Emergency, you got patched up or operated on, you lived, or you died. It all took time, but the time ended. In a rehab center, though, everything went on and on. Especially if you had a stroke.

That was what Seth Darrow was thinking as he watched his grandfather in one of the physical therapy rooms at Penn Cove Care, which was situated on a leafy side street in the old Victorian town of Coupeville on Whidbey Island. Seth and his dad had just engaged in a depressing meeting with the head of PT, a woman who'd spent twenty-five years in the military and who had a way of speaking that pretty much showed it. The news they'd been given had matched the weather outside, which was wintertime bleak with a sky pouring down a fifteenth straight day of steady rain accompanied by the occasional wind gust that was taking down aged alders and lofty Douglas firs across the island.

“Mr. Darrow still isn't working with us,” she announced to
Seth and his dad ten seconds after they'd sat in front of her desk. Her name plate called her
G. H. FIELDSTONE
, and she'd introduced herself as George. Then she'd added
doctor
in front of it, just in case they'd considered getting friendly. “This has to change,” she said. “This is a rehab facility, with the accent on
rehab
. If Mr. Darrow doesn't make more progress . . .” She did one of those lifting of the fingers routines, which meant they were to fill in the blanks. She looked severely at Seth's dad, Rich. It seemed she thought he was thick as a board because she added, “This isn't a permanent living facility. You understand.”

She then suggested that they have a look for themselves from the hallway outside of the PT room where Ralph Darrow was working with the occupational therapist. That was what they were doing at the moment, and Seth's heart thudded painfully as he watched his grandfather.

It had been more than four weeks since the stroke that had robbed Ralph Darrow of speech and the ability to use his right arm. His right leg had been affected, too, but not as badly as his arm. He'd more or less got back the use of the leg, which was the good news, although he was still unsteady. But when it came to the arm, he was toast. The damage was done, the arm was finito, and what he had to do was learn how to be left handed. He also had to learn how to use his left hand to exercise his right arm so that he didn't develop something called contractures. If that happened, his right arm's muscles would totally freeze up as the muscles thickened.

So once he got steadier on his feet, Ralph had PT sessions for
his arm several times a day. He also had speech therapy sessions twice a day to handle the loss of language. The situation Ralph was in would've been a bummer for anyone, but for Seth's grandfather, who for the last fifty-two of his seventy-three years had been a carpenter, a gardener, and a forester who maintained well over one hundred acres of woodland, it was like a death blow.

Seth's insides ached as he watched his granddad. He shot a look at his father and saw that Rich Darrow felt the same. The occupational therapist was presenting Ralph with exercises that involved using his left hand to lift his useless right hand to the height of his shoulder, but once the therapist did it for him in demonstration, Ralph did nothing to show that he understood.

Seth's father said, “He's not even trying,” as his cell phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket, gave it a look, said, “It's your mom” to Seth and then into the phone, “Hi, sweetheart. You doing okay?” Rich listened for a moment and, for his part, Seth strained to hear. His mom said something to which his dad replied, “You don't need to go so long without a pill, Amy. It's not like you're going to get addicted. . . . What're you going to do with them, sell them? . . . Don't be stubborn. Take a pill, get some rest, and we'll be home soon. . . . No. It's not looking good. We'll talk when Seth and I get back.” He listened for a second, said, “Will do. Love you,” and ended the call. He said to Seth, “Your mom loves you, she said.”

“Back at her.” Seth nodded at his granddad, who was still sitting lifelessly in front of the therapist. “What do we do now?”

Rich settled his shoulders. “We talk to him.”

“But if he doesn't understand . . . ?”

“Oh, you can bet he understands,” Rich said. “Underneath it all, he's still Ralph Darrow. I guarantee you, he understands.”

• • •

SETH WASN'T SURE.
It seemed to him that if his granddad understood that the key to getting back home was showing everyone that he was capable of reacquiring speech and also capable of learning to use his left hand and arm in place of his right one, then Ralph would throw himself into these tasks. He wouldn't spend weeks just
sitting
there.

The speech therapist would show him picture cards representing words like
cat
, hat, bat.
She would say the words that went with the cards. But all that came from Ralph in return was a dull-eyed look at what was being flashed in front of him.

The occupational therapist would present him with blocks of various shapes to manipulate into holes by means of his left hand, and he'd just let his left hand fall to his lap. Seth had said more than once that his granddad wasn't
like
this man who slumped in a chair and did not respond. Grand was filled with life and joy and wisdom, and right now he just didn't understand what was going on. Somehow none of the medical people had made a breakthrough with him.

Seth followed his father into the PT room. They stood out of Ralph's line of vision until the end of the session with the occupational therapist. At that point, the therapist stood and said—as cheerfully as possible, considering the lack of cooperation from
the patient—“That's enough for today. Let's get you back to your room.” That was when Rich and Seth stepped forward.

Rich said to the therapist, “We'll take him from here, if that's okay,” and the tone that he used communicated something more than just helping her out.

She said to Ralph, “Mr. Darrow, I'm leaving you in the hands of your son and grandson,” which got Ralph's attention. He turned his head and, in doing so, confirmed what Rich had been declaring: When Ralph wanted to understand something, he understood completely. The therapist patted Ralph's shoulder, said to him, “Don't you get into trouble,” and she left them.

Rich went around to the front of Ralph's wheelchair. He set the brake and said to his father, “Let's see how you're doing with walking back to your room. Seth, you take the chair. Dad, I'm helping you up.”

Ralph stiffened. Rich said to his father, “You know what's going on, and it's time to stop pretending you don't. Here's the deal, Dad: If you don't improve, Brenda wins. So what you've got to ask yourself is whether you want that to happen.”

• • •

BRENDA WAS BRENDA
Sloan. She was Seth's aunt and Rich Darrow's younger sister, and she had buckets of money and the will to use it. She lived in the upscale community of Medina east of Seattle and across Lake Washington, where her husband made megabucks dealing in high end real estate and Brenda had a successful business staging homes prior to putting them
on the market. That is, she staged homes when she
wasn't
getting involved in Ralph Darrow's health and welfare, which had become her primary obsession about twenty-four hours after Ralph's stroke.

That was when she'd shown up on the island and made the declaration that Ralph “obviously” could no longer live on his own. The fact that he'd had a stroke while alone and had not been discovered till some hours later indicated to her that he was destined for assisted living.

That Ralph Darrow did not live alone was something that didn't impress Brenda Sloan. For he shared his house with a teenaged girl who traded housecleaning and cooking for her room and board. This
child
, Brenda announced, hadn't been present when the stroke occurred.
That
indicated what the future would be if Ralph was allowed to return to his home.

“He'll have another stroke, she won't be there, and he'll die,” was Brenda's repeated refrain. “Do you
want
that, Rich?”

No one wanted that, but no one aside from Brenda wanted Ralph to have to leave his home.