Excerpted: Taking Down Names

It’s 6:11 a.m. when Jacky’s phone dings. One new text message from Sgt. Gordon Maher:

GM: Body found in Burnt Cove.

Jacky has been awake since dawn, giving her new blackout blind hard looks. When she purchased it from Canadian Tire, the youngster working in sales said the measurements were exact. But now the first light presents itself in a significant gap between the window frame and the blind’s edge. So bright, it imprints a glowing rectangle on the inside of Jacky’s eyelids, like a door to something burning. Now she needs curtains to black out the blackout blind. Might be curtains for that teenager the next time she shops at Canadian Tire.

The blackout blind is part of Jacky’s ongoing quest to get her sleep back. In their appointment last month, her doctor provided a handout on sleep hygiene: No coffee or big meals late at night. Avoid alcohol. No screens for at least an hour before bedtime. She copied down the points in large block letters on the whiteboard by her computer desk and set up notifications on all her technology. Now every night at 9 p.m. reminders sound off on the phone, PC, and laptop: no more screens! She complies, but can’t mute anything involving work.

A text from Sgt. Maher means the location and details haven’t been communicated over radio dispatch yet. Anyone with a police scanner doesn’t know. If she leaves right now, she could break the story.

He’s sent a pin with the location. That’s new for him—he’s likely just learned how to do that. She responds: OTW. Maher replies with a little thumbs up. Using emojis likely makes him feel connected. A good way for cops to feel.

She rubs her eyes. The glowing rectangle remains visible. The day ahead leans its way in.

*

Jacky pours cold brew into a travel mug and slaps on a toque. She’ll do something with her bangs at the first red light.

Outside, she finds her car unlocked and has a moment of panic. Last night she bought groceries and carried in a lazy man’s load: five bags at once. She must not have pressed lock on the fob. But everything is still in order. Miraculous for Balsam Street.

Maybe the dash camera deterred thieves. Her brother Eric gifted everybody one a few Christmases ago. Mom had been in a fender bender where the other driver initially took the blame. But later, he backtracked and said she cut him off. There was no proof either way. Her sister Mia wasn’t a fan: “Dashcams add to the growing lack of societal trust.” “Whatever,” Eric said. “You’ll feel differently when it saves you thousands in insurance.” Jacky had sided with Mia; she’d done a piece about vigilante-wannabees who post other drivers’ mistakes. Plus, at Avalon Herald News, she has to watch hours of user-generated content. So much footage of road rage and terrifying near misses. But now with the dashcam, she’s used to not thinking about it. Less to think about is always welcome.

Not much traffic out. Another of Jacky’s sleep investments is a Noise Machine. It contains sound settings like White Noise, Brown Noise, Rain, Meadow, Ocean, and City. Last week she tried out the City setting. It’s all traffic sounds: droning engines, distant honking. It bothered her so much, she got a second wind and lay awake for hours thinking, who sleeps to this, the din of people trapped in their cars? Just trying to get home and relax. At least this morning she has most of the road to herself.

What was it Mia took in the beginning, for her own sleep troubles? Melatonin. Maybe this is the trick, a safe dose of something over the counter and ignore the harder stuff. Easier said than done. These days, by the time Jacky’s eaten supper, she only wants bed, wants the day over. Last night, she forced herself to stay up until ten, rewatching episodes of Mad Men. At this point, she just admires their clothes, the expense gone into the authentic 1960s décor. Imagine being in an office where everyone smokes and drinks constantly. Nixon didn’t really start coming down on pot until 1971. That would work: stay buzzed all day, go home, conk right out.

She slows as she reaches the turnoff from the Southern Shore Highway into Burnt Cove. Dawn reveals the soft underbelly of people’s lives: curls of woodstove smoke, cars warming up, a movement of blue jays on a lawn. She and Mia used to talk about buying a place around the bay like out here, less than an hour from town. Somewhere they could hike and chill out. Mia joked they could finally learn to play 120s in memory of Dad. “Three children and none of them can play a hand of cards,” he’d say. “Serves me right for raising townies.” Mom could come down on long weekends. Eric and his family could stay there when they visit from the mainland.

In these conversations, it never took long for the future cabin to grow ambitious in Mia’s mind: “A hot tub with a view of the water. A garage to store a boat. A wood-fired pizza oven.” Always all over the pizza idea: “Mia’s Pizzeria. PizzaMia. For my summer beer money when I’m not teaching.” Even though no one remembers her making pizza more than a couple of times.

Jacky sips her cold brew. She should have grabbed some toast or a granola bar. Hopefully she won’t lose her appetite.

The location is down Powerhouse Road, an ATV trail leading down to the shore. Not many cars around. Looks like she’s first. Got the scoop, thank you Sgt. Maher. She parks close by and walks down.

The ATV trail is rocky and damp. The air contains notes of early spring: sweet pine with a touch of fresh rot. Something died over the winter and is now thawing out. Jacky dips her nose into the collar of her jacket, focuses on not slipping.

Signs along the path warn against illegal dumping: violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. The trail turns left along the cliff by the water where the police have the area cordoned off. The coroner’s van parked next to police ATVs. Must have taken a slow and careful effort to drive it down here.

Sgt. Maher stands by another officer. He and Jacky share no acknowledgement, but she can sense him noticing her. He’s grown his moustache out and it effectively conceals his mouth, like a greying strike-through mark over his expression. Maybe it’s why so many male police sport moustaches. A place for a smirk or grimace to hide.

“Good morning, Jacky Careen,” the other cop says. “You’re on the ball today.”

“I was already up.” She keeps her expression neutral. All it might take is for someone to catch a glance at Sgt. Maher’s phone and spot a revealing text. Cops who spill to the media are lucky to get a job with wildlife once they’re fired.

The cliff drops off about fifteen metres down, with slabs of grey rock lining the bottom. Looking straight out, you could appreciate a view over the water to Ship Island and its flock of sheep, fattening up on sea-salted clover. But directly down is a collection of debris: rusted bed springs, plastic bags, scrap metal, coffee cups. An old dumping ground. Jacky’s eyes skim over a patch of grass. Everything cold and wet. Imagine, staring into a pile of garbage during one’s final moments.

A woman, maybe mid-sixties, stands about ten metres away. She wears an orange visibility vest and a red toque perched a little too high on her head, garden gnomish. Her hair hangs in a braid almost to her elbow, brown at the bottom and ombre-ing into grey as it moves up. Possible witness.

Jacky approaches with the AHN microphone in front of her so the logo is visible. When she first started out, she would practice composing a neutral expression in the mirror and in selfies: Here to get the facts, but with respect. Mia dubbed it her Courteous Curiosity face.

“Hello,” Jacky says. “I’m Jacky Careen.” She flashes her media card. “I’m with AHN.”

The woman raises her eyebrows in recognition. “I know who you are. I’ve always read AHN. Since before its name changed.”

“Did you see what happened here this morning?”

“I found him if that’s what you mean.”

Here we go. “Yes, that’s what I mean. May I ask you a few questions?”

“Oh yes.” The woman’s shoulders jitter slightly. Amusement? Excitement? “Happy to give you the story, Jacky Careen. I don’t like all of them, but I likes you.”

“I appreciate that. What’s your name?”

“Rondonna O’Keefe.”

Wow. Good old Ron and Donna probably also have a son named Ronald Junior. Maybe Rondonna was a compromise over Ronalda or Ronette. Not like Jacky has any right to judge. When Eric was born, Dad made a crack about finally having a son, how he used up his name on her, his first born. “It’s why your name is Jack with a y. As in why couldn’t you have been born a boy? Haha!” Jacky was only seven at the time and burst into tears. “Jesus, Jack,’” her mom said, “what a thing to say to your daughter.” He never made the joke again, but it comes to mind whenever she meets a Jacky or Jonette or another obvious patronym.

“Are you from Burnt Cove?”

“Pretty much. My home is here, but I grew up in Mobile.”

“What happened here this morning?”

“I was coming along with my picker.” Rondonna points to a neon orange litter stick next to a blue recycling bag. “When I came around the corner, I heard the crows making a racket. I figured then there was something dead, so I geared up to find a cat or something that size.” Rondonna points down the drop. “Then I looked down and saw a shoe sticking up and I thought, what idiot decided to dump clothes here?

Especially formal wear.”

“Formal wear?”

“Yes. He was in a suit. That’s what I saw, his shoe, then all of him in his suit.” She shakes her head. “Then I called the cops.”

“It must have been quite a shock.”

“Indeed.” Rondonna wrinkles her nose. “Very sad for the young man. But it would have been something else if he was here for a while and they had to do a search. Some of the crowd around here would have come down to gawk, compromise the location. But I knew he was dead, so I called the police.”

Excerpted from Taking Down Names by Bridget Canning © 2026. Used with permission of Breakwater Books.

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Photo credit Ritche Perez.

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