When he left the beach, he drove to the office and logged in his data, then drove back home. A local news program came on every morning at ten—it caught him up on everything he needed to know in less than thirty minutes. That was about all the news he could handle these days.

He checked his watch: 9:55 a.m.

Two Sisters also opened at ten. He could skip his morning news and instead purchase one of those new cookbooks they had in the front window. He wasn’t a half-bad cook, but maybe it was time he learned to cook something more adventurous than grilled chicken and a decent steak.

He chuckled and filled a glass of water at the sink. Here he was, sixty-seven years old and trying to come up with an excuse to go see a lady. He set the glass by the sink to use later, then sat at the table to stretch his leg. The most recent Sugar Bend Observer was there on the table, so he pulled it toward him. The Observer was okay—it wasn’t the same as the paper he used to read, but then again, none of them were. He missed the days when he got a daily newspaper, chock full of everything he needed to know and then some. Now the papers came so infrequently, the news they reported was like days-old coffee, forgotten in the bottom of the pot.

He paged through the paper and skimmed the headlines: “Things to Do in Sugar Bend This Weekend.” “Public Meeting August 15 to Discuss New Community Park.” “Raccoons Terrorizing Phoenix Bay Neighborhood.” “The Mystery of the Old Boat Continues.”

He sat up straighter in his chair and peered closer to read the small print under that last headline. “Jay Malone’s boat that washed up in Little River continues to perplex Sugar Bend residents, who wonder how his boat got there and how it sunk in the first place. As if that wasn’t mysterious enough, a new piece of the puzzle has been discovered sitting in a dry box in the side of the boat’s hull—a delicate gold bracelet engraved with birds.”

Frank’s eyes blurred as he read the words. He saw the downtown jewelry store, saw himself standing by the display cases, his forehead damp with perspiration as he scanned the velvet cases for a gift for Violet. The gold bracelet, etched with birds in various states of flight, had seemed perfect for her. How in the world had it found its way into Jay Malone’s boat?

Then, with sickening clarity, he knew. It was him. This is who she left me for.

It was a gut punch, realizing why she’d pulled away. And the worst part was, he’d met the man. That night at his house—the boat in the yard and the smudge of blue paint on his forehead. The woman standing at the window and the screams of the foxes in the woods.

Jay was a married man, with his wife in the upstairs window, worry painted on her face, and yet Violet had been with him? How could that be?