“I was calling about something else,” I said. “I made you a promise. That I wouldn’t look into Lauten Hartley alone.”

“Yeah,” she said.

“Tomorrow,” I said, “I start looking into it.”

Remy didn’t answer right away.

“We start, you mean.”

“That’s why I’m calling.”

“Okay,” Remy said. “But easy, P.T. All right? Easy.”

I stared out at the black water. The moon was rising into the sky, a waning gibbous. It shone off the surface and made the still water look like igneous rock.

“Tomorrow night, partner,” I said. “You and me.” I hung up and stared out at the lake. A striper jumped, and concentric circles formed, more perfect than smoke rings coming off the stage at an old jazz club.

I moved about the boat. Flipping down jump seats and making sure the tackle boxes were affixed in the aft stowage locker.

I went into the galley and climbed into bed beside Kelly. My eyes were tired, and I fell fast asleep beside her.

22

In the morning, we motored back to the dock and met Harry Glavis at the time we’d originally arranged with him. Along the way, Kelly sprayed down the deck and cleaned up the trash. She stripped the sheets off the bed and left them folded atop the mattress.

Once we handed over the boat, we got back in my truck and fired up the engine. Headed down through Ralston and into Oakes Bluff.

As we moved through rural areas, I saw more election signs for Jerome Bleeker than I did for Toby Monroe, even in the traditionally conservative white areas. Did this Bleeker guy have a chance of taking down Governor Monroe? No way.

We moved southwest, following the route of the Tullumy River, its water churning parallel to the road that carried us to Mason Falls. The river that had changed my life.

Down in the valley close to the river, a blanket of fog was thick and gray, but as the sun rose, the fog became translucent and misty over the trees, and it disappeared as it hit the highway.

“I’m glad I stayed,” Kelly said, the sun streaming in through the open passenger window and the light playing off the tan sheen of her legs.

I stared at her.

“With you, silly,” she said. “On the boat.” Her brown eyes studied me. “You’ve been quiet,” she said. “Are you okay?”

“I’m good.” I placed my hand atop hers. And I felt good. A few days clean of the school shooting and the mess that the stakeout had become.

Ten minutes later, I dropped Kelly off and gave her a kiss. Told her I’d call her later.

“You better.”

As she walked away, my eyes lingered on her shape, and she turned, shaking her head. Caught red-handed.

About five minutes after that, the phone rang, and I smiled. In three days, I felt like I already knew enough of Kelly’s sense of humor. That she’d call me five minutes later and ask if I was ready with the ring. Our running joke.