Violet thought of that night. The dark, dank air, Jay’s lurching steps on the wooden boards, his angry, slurred words. The thought of claiming self-defense had crossed her mind, many times actually. But too much had happened. The bricks, the boat. There was no coming back from it.

Under the table Violet reached for Trudy’s hand. “You probably know the answer as well as we do. He was in debt. He’d been with another woman. He sold his business. He had no other family to speak of.” She shrugged. “Sounds to me like he walked away.”

Later, after the officers had gone and Trudy had retreated to her bedroom, Violet walked out to the dock behind her house and watched the water for hours. The easy flow of it was mesmerizing—life coming and going, rising and sinking with every tide. If she squinted and held her head the right way, it was even possible to forget for a moment all that the river had witnessed.

At a footstep on the dock, Violet turned to see Trudy walking toward her, her bare feet skimming over the wood, the air around her shimmering in silence. She lowered herself onto the dock next to Violet, and there they remained as the day slipped away, the two of them bound together in a strange mixture of mystery, guilt, and rebirth. They stayed until the sun set in the west, lighting the sky on fire. Only then did they rise and make their way back inside, the falling darkness hovering around them, vast and quiet.

Sixteen

Daylight was fading fast, but the wind was still strong. It rushed around the corners of downtown shops, flattened tablecloths against table legs, and sent napkins and children’s balloons soaring into the sky. The art show portion of the festival officially ended at seven o’clock, and as merchants closed their booths and took down their tents, the street party began. Two different bands—one bluegrass, one country—set up at opposite ends of Water Street, the middle of the road was cleared for dancing, and a few rickety carnival rides sat in a grassy field overlooking the river. Children ran free, their cheeks sunburned and sticky from cotton candy. Parents trailed behind, carrying shopping bags, half-eaten hot dogs, and cans of beer.

Customers still milled around, winding between the remaining tent booths, though merchants were quickly packing things up to carry back to their respective shops. Violet’s eye was on the crowd as she nestled a few unsold candleholders and small notebooks with pressed-flower pages into boxes. She spied Trudy’s old friend Billy Olsen with a baby girl in his arms, standing near a man making balloon animals. Across the street a police officer stood at the booth selling local grits and goat cheese. She only saw him from behind, but from the set of his shoulders and his light blond hair, she knew he was the same one who’d visited her at the shop. Justin Roby. Maya and Tyler were at that same booth, chatting with a woman who’d taken several of Maya and Trudy’s art classes.