This night, though, he didn’t mind so much because he had a mystery to busy himself with. It was 3:15 a.m. and he’d been staring at the photos of the recently recovered jon boat for the last little while. His nephew Justin had sent him the link to the photos on Facebook, and that’s where he was now, sitting in front of his computer with a finger poised over the mouse as he scrolled from one photo to the next, his face aglow in the dim blue light. The man who found the boat had posted a few more just last night, and he’d added the address where the boat had been found: 61 River Ash Road.

The man had managed to get the boat out of the water and up onto the sandy shoreline. The motor and tiller were still intact, though a hole gaped in the bottom and the whole thing was covered in barnacles and grime. Frank propped his chin in his hand, his mental gears working cleanly despite the hour. It could have been twenty years ago, when he was much younger and sprier and when a late shift energized rather than exhausted him.

He used to love those shifts, when the precinct was quiet until something happened, then he’d burst from his office, hop into his squad car, and show up wherever he was needed. Back then he’d never shied away from anything.

His life was much simpler now. Slower. And if he ever missed the frenetic activity, the near-constant buzz of his earlier working years, he had his nephew calling him up now and again to ask his opinion on some minor police matter—a squabble over a traffic ticket or a judge’s indictment that had ruffled feathers on the force. Or, in this case, an old green boat that had been asleep under the water for who knew how long.

Justin was trying to make Frank feel needed, like his hard-won skills and intelligence from a career on the force weren’t going to waste, and Frank appreciated the gesture. He even enjoyed the work. But sometimes all the phone calls did was remind him of just how quiet and empty his days really were.

With a sigh Frank rolled his chair closer to the desk and focused on the screen in front of him. There wasn’t much left of the boat except that painted stripe down the side. The more he scrolled back and forth though, his gaze sliding over the bow, the hull, the stern, the more it began to take on a hint of the familiar. Something about that blue stripe set against the green. Somehow that blue was still crisp and clear, as if it had just been painted on yesterday, though the deterioration of the rest of the boat showed that was impossible. Frank’s skin tingled as a wave of memory tried to kick his legs out from under him.

He stood from the computer abruptly, causing his chair to clang behind him. He paused, steadying both the chair and his shaking hands, then walked to the kitchen. In the dark he pulled a glass from the cabinet and filled it with water. He drank it slowly, relishing the coolness in his parched throat. When he finished, he set the glass in the sink and returned to the computer.