Chapter 14

Keone showedup at eleven dressed for work in his splendiferous uniform. My black jeans and polo shirt were a sad contrast to his spiffy white getup. If clothes made the man, in that outfit, Mr. K was definitely theman.

We decided that lunch would need to be premade sandwiches and root beers from Artie and Opal's store, eaten in the K K office. We could've gone to Hana and grabbed something from the food trucks, but that would've required us to drive separately, since Keone would need to leave for the airport in less than an hour. We returned to the shack and settled our meager repast on the slightly rickety table.

"I'm worried about you, Kat," he said by way of jumping right into it.

"I'm a wreck because I didn't sleep well last night," I said. "Margaritas with the new neighbor."

"I'm not talking about appearance. That's one of the things I like about you. You hardly pay attention to your clothes or hair—or makeup for that matter."

Was that the proverbial left-handed compliment? I don't know how left-handed people feel about that phrase, but from where I was sitting (and I'm unequivocally right-handed) it seems like a "dis."

"Like I said, I didn't sleep well. We had our new neighbor, Elle, over for dinner. She brought lots of margaritas. I had a few too many. Aunt Fae, too."

I recalled the heartfelt admission by Aunt Fae that I'd been the spark that had brightened her life and I smiled, but I didn't feel like sharing that with Keone right then.

Mr. K smiled in return, adding his trademark dimple to the mix. "And like I said, I'm not concerned about how you look. I'm worried about you taking on whatever blame or guilt or whatever it is you're feeling about that guy who blew up his house."

"I don't care much about the guy. He was a mean, probably crazy, dude. I care about whether he killed an innocent girl in the process. I didn't see her, but I saw her pink rubber slippers and I . . ." How could I explain how that image in my mind's eye would haunt me forever?

"Is there anything I could say that would make it better?"

"Probably not. But I appreciate you asking."

We stopped talking and chomped on ham and cheese and chugged down root beer for a while. Having him there eased my grief a point or two, but once his splendiferously uniformed presence left the building, I'd probably be back to square one. I was first to break the silence. "I need to go out there."

"Where? To the scene?"

"Yeah. I need to see the extent of the damage."

"Why would you even consider that?"

"According to Lei, I was probably the last person to see the place intact. I need to see what it looks like now."

Keone pushed back from the table and wiped his hands on a paper napkin. "That's a very bad idea. But it probably doesn"t matter what I think, because I doubt the investigators will let you within a half-mile of the place."

"Maybe so, but I've got to try. I owe her that much."

He came around behind me and set his hands on my shoulders, giving them a massaging squeeze. I tolerated it, and after a minute, closed my eyes and relaxed as he rubbed the stiff muscles. "Just so you know, I'm completely against this," he said eventually. "But if you insist on going, I want you to swear you'll wait until I can go with you."

"As you know, Mr. K, I'm not much for swearing." It was true. Growing up in my Aunt Fae's house, she'd insisted on a certain level of what she called "decorum." Cursing was not tolerated. In fact, two decades later, I could still recall the taste of a bar of Ivory soap I'd been subjected to after dropping an F bomb.

"Fine. Let's call it an ask. Please don't go out there without me."

"I won't be going anywhere other than the post office for the next four hours," I said, glancing at the time on my phone. "And you need to get going right now or you'll be late for your preflight check."

"Okay, but how about a hug for your favorite pilot?"

I got up and turned around. Though I wanted a hug in the worst way, shivers shook me; I was afraid to be close, to need him any more than I already did.

I hung my head. "Not in the mood right now."

"You sure?" Mr. K cocked his head and bit his lip. He couldn't have been more appealing; the problem was all me.

"I do love you, Keone. I promise that much." We'd been test driving the "L" word since Christmas, but it was still tough for me to say.

"And I love you. We'll get through this, Kat. I wish I could convince you to take this easier and let me help."

He left and took all the brightness out of the day with him, just as I'd feared he would.

* * *

Like an adept border collie,I managed to herd the last of our postal patrons out the door at four p.m. sharp.

Pua widened her eyes, seemingly impressed. "Maybe if I was a foot taller, like you, I wouldn't have to threaten bodily harm to clear this place out at closing. I can't remember the last time I was able to pull that shade down on time."

Ask anyone: Pua Chang was way more formidable than most people twice her size. And she knew it. But I'd hustled everyone out and locked up promptly for a reason, so I wasn't going to waste time playing "who's scarier" with Pua.

Keone had asked me to wait until he could accompany me to the scene, but I'd managed to sidestep agreeing to that request. I didn't want him there. Not that I didn't appreciate his love and support, because I did. But this wasn't about that. My need to see the site was about facing the enemy head-on. I had to check whether the pink slippers, or any other evidence of the girl's presence, was out there. I had to see what I could do to either convince the authorities that the girl had been there or convince myself that she hadn't.

* * *

The police had strungyellow warning tape across the turnoff to Halepua‘a Road. A white Maui Fire Department sedan was parked to the side. I pulled up beside it and sucked in a deep "here we go" breath before lowering my window.

A grizzled fire department veteran lumbered out of the sedan and came over to me. "Sorry, Ma'am. This road is closed," he said.

He had the appearance of a guy who was working off his last year or two before retirement and resented being charged with manning the outpost rather than getting his turnout gear dirty in the thick of the action.

"I appreciate you safeguarding the scene," I said. "And this will only take a few minutes."

He leaned in as if trying to establish if I'd been drinking. "Ma'am, I'm serious. No one in or out. No exceptions."

I fetched a business card and presented it to him. "Katherine Smith, Postmaster," I said in my Secret Service protection detail voice.

"Okay. You run the post office in Ohia."

"Correct. And, as the senior federal employee representing the interests of postal service in this area, I need to be allowed to pass."

He took a step back as if he was concerned about catching whatever craziness I was suffering from.

I opened my car door and got out. I'd learned from previous encounters with bureaucratic roadblocks that my size and demeanor went a long way in establishing my authority. I closed the driver door and turned to face him, pleased to note he was at least four inches shorter than I was. "I'm here to ascertain the condition of certain United States Postal Service property that may have been damaged or even destroyed as a result of this incident."

"What in heaven's name are you talking about, young lady?"

"As you may know, rural mailboxes are the property of the U.S. Postal Service, not the homeowner. And I've been tasked with determining if any such property was damaged or destroyed."

He balked, opening and shutting his mouth. I took that opportunity to reopen my door and grab a clipboard I'd brought along for the occasion. I studied it ostentatiously. "I need to document the site and report back to the central office in Kahului within now and close of business tomorrow. Today I will surveil the damage, and tomorrow I'll file my findings."

The firefighter shook his head. "I don't believe they have mailboxes out this way. Last I heard, this was all General Delivery."

"This property may or may not be within the rural route delivery zone," I bluffed. "As postmaster, I can verify that I have never observed the homeowner pick up mail at the post office. That being so, this property may be within the delivery zone."

The man gazed out into the dense vegetation lining the road as if hoping someone above his pay grade would crash through the foliage and give him the go-ahead. Or, better yet, tell me to get my lying behind out of there.

"This is a federal order, sir." I tapped on the clipboard. "You don't mess with the feds." I squinted to read his name badge. "Fire Investigator Moore, is it? I don't know when your shift is up, but I can assure you I'll get what I need to file my report in less than half an hour. Counting travel time. I won't even leave my vehicle."

The man ran a hand through his steel gray crew cut, then backed up, showing me his palms in a display of surrender. I popped back into the driver's seat and took off like a shot down the rough dirt road—the clipboard, loaded with post office box applications, bouncing on the empty seat beside me.