I glanced around, trying to think how I could escape. A quick swim to the deep end, climb out, and run across the yard? He would surely catch me. I looked wildly up at the house, knowing we were too alone, too isolated, for anyone to hear me if I screamed. I thought about Carlos in the hospital having the cut on his leg sewn up. It couldn’t take forever. Surely, they would all be home soon.

“I wondered what your plans are now,” he said, holding out one foot and tapping it against the water. Ripples rolled out on the surface and rolled all the way to me until they splashed against my stomach and disappeared.

“I’m leaving in the morning,” I said lightly, taking another step back. “Now that the killer’s been caught, there’s no reason for me to stick around.”

I could hear my own voice as I spoke, knowing it sounded as fake as it possibly could. What was wrong with me? I was an investigator; I regularly bent the truth for a living. Why now did this one lie sound so pathetic? Had he heard what I said? Did he know what I was really thinking?

He just shook his head, clicking his tongue.

“A penny for your thoughts,” he repeated. “Or not. Because I already know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking Alan Bennet didn’t kill Wendell after all.”

My mind raced as I tried to fit other pieces of this puzzle together. I thought about Nick’s alibi, about the fact that he had been shopping in Philadelphia with Marion at the time that Wendell was killed. I never had gotten around to asking her to clarify that, nor had I inquired as to whether Nick had been with her the entire time.

“Let us not pretend any more, Callie. I just heard you say, ‘It was Nick.’ You think it was me.”

“Why, Nick?” I asked sinking down into the water. “Why kill a man who never hurt anyone, who did so much good in the world, for so many people?”

“Wendell Smythe was a good man,” Nick replied, ignoring my question. He reached one hand out to the water and scooped up a handful and splashed it onto his face. The water trickled down across his broad cheeks, moistening his beard, leaving a dark wet spot on the front of his shirt.

“I’ve already told the police,” I said. “They know Alan didn’t do it. They know he’s not the one who killed Mr. Smythe.”

“You didn’t tell the police yet,” Nick said simply, shaking his head. “You just now figured it out yourself.”

I started to speak, but he held up one hand to stop me.

“I was afraid you would figure it out, sooner or later,” he said. “So now the question that remains is, what are we going to do about it?”