Down below in the cove, the Atlantic breakers crashed with a deafening roar, sending salt water into the winter air. The silhouettes of the tall oaks and maples shorn of their leaves—trees his late father had planted in the garden when he was a boy—bent and creaked in the wind. Away in the distance, out in Penobscot Bay, Reznick could see the lights of the lobster boats as they headed back to Rockland with the day’s catch.
