Wendy Webster was a friend of the family.
That was how she knew all about the so-called “ripped blade.” The sword had been in and out of the family for generations, in and out of pawn shops, up and down the coastline, whipped about like a Nor’easter, a local legend, really, but only among those who knew, and that wasn’t much of anyone, really, outside of the family, and all those collectors, constantly disappointed.
Honestly, when Wendy had first heard about what happened to Kate, she assumed it had something to do with the sword even before it came up. When it became just a curiosity, a footnote, a bizarre term to hang the whole thing on, Wendy kept it clearly in her crosshairs.
She began asking around, too. She discovered that all the infamous kidnap victims from the past had had possession of the sword at some point, or someone in their families, anyway, and Wendy wasn’t much one to believe in coincidences.
She worried what would become of it. Kate’s mother-in-law asked Wendy the likelihood of reclaiming it at some point. Wendy was one for pessimism, too. She believed it would be locked up in some evidence box (a long one!) for years to come.
When they gathered for meals, these days, at the Muddy Rudder, talk was rife with allusions to the sword. Some at the table had the good sense to at least appear guilty about it.
Wendy sometimes wondered about the damned thing’s origins. She hoped it was all worth it. She always had tissue packs with her, these days. She told herself it was for Kate Meadows.
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