Skyler had been standing at the end of the nearest crab table. There was a gap between two of the tennis women, and a pile of crabs right there, bright orange-red, steam still lifting off them, the seasoning crusted thick along the backs of the shells, and a mallet lying on the paper next to them, and her mother's voice in her head, as clear as if she were standing right behind her: Turn it over, Sky. Find the apron. Pull the tab, lift the shell, scrape out the dead man's fingers, snap it in half. You have to work for it. That's what makes it good.
She reached out and picked one up.
She did not see Celeste cross the deck. She only felt it, a sharp crack across the back of her hand, so hard and so sudden that the crab flew out of her fingers and bounced off the edge of the table and rolled across the boards and dropped through a gap into the dark water below.
Everyone stopped talking.
"I told you." Celeste's voice was low, but in that silence it carried perfectly. Her face was flushed, two bright points of color high on her cheekbones. "Those are for the family and our guests. Not for you. You've had your dinner."
"I haven't," Skyler said. Her hand was burning. She held it against her chest with the other hand. "I haven't had anything. I had crackers."
"Do you see?" Celeste turned to Renée, and her voice changed completely, became soft and tired and wounded. "Do you see what I deal with? Every single day. The lying. The sneaking. In front of everyone."
"I'm not lying."
"Go upstairs, Skyler."
One of the tennis women was looking at her plate. Phil the maybe-commissioner was looking at the creek. The young woman with the boat had her hand over her mouth, but she was not saying anything. Nobody was saying anything. Renée had opened her leather folder and was writing something down, quickly, with a silver pen.