“Paul,” Marvin said to me, “I gotta tell you something.”

“What is it?” I asked.

When he moved closer, I smelled Old Spice and Ivory soap.

“This is somethin’ you need to listen to. And maybe other folks won’t tell ya.”

“Okay?” I went quiet.

“You were a good husband to my daughter. But you can’t hold on to that forever, y’know?”

I didn’t respond.

“Look at these raggedy old bones.” He pointed at himself. “You shouldn’t be out here with me. You’re young. You need to get out and meet someone. You got your whole life to live still.”

I stared at Marvin. Had I been holding back out of respect for him?

“Okay,” I said. “I appreciate you saying that.”

We motored back to the dock about fifteen minutes later in silence.

I remembered Marvin seeing me with Sarah Raines, the city medical examiner, who I’d dated for five months earlier this year. He seemed uncomfortable around her, but maybe I’d imagined that. Maybe it was me.

We drove home, and I studied the sights on the way back, the truck creaking quietly with just the sound of the wind whipping across two open windows.

About ten miles northeast of the city, high on a bluff above the road was a sign for a business converting lawn mowers into racing mowers.

“You ever seen one of those races?” I asked, but Marvin shook his head.

“I remember my daddy bringing me to one,” I said. “‘Look at these great hillbillies, Paul,’ he’d said to me.” I didn’t understand the statement as a ten-year-old. My father was a complex man. In one moment, he was in awe of these men and their skills with a motor. In the next, he saw them as rednecks.

I dropped Marvin at his place.

Helping him in with his gear, I gave my father-in-law most of the fish. Then I drove home and brought everything straight into the garage.

I showered, tidied up, and started some laundry.

Thinking of Marvin’s advice about getting out there, I searched my bedroom for the business card where Kelly Borland, the teacher from the school shooting, had written her phone number.

I found it and stared at the card. Beside her number, she’d drawn a small heart. This was probably not the type of woman Marvin had been talking about. A victim in a shooting.

A couple minutes later, I grabbed my phone and called her.

Strange, but I actually felt butterflies.

“Hey there,” I said. “It’s P. T. Marsh.”

A beat passed.

“Detective Marsh,” I clarified. “You came by the precinct—”

“Oh, sure. How are you?” Kelly said, her voice cheery.

We small-talked for a minute, and when that went quiet, she cut to the quick. “So you hungry for that dinner?”

“Well, I wouldn’t presume you have no plans tonight.”

“It’s no big deal,” she said. “Remember, Detective. Just dinner. No ring.”

I laughed at this, and she said to give her two hours and then come by. Gave me her address.