At the sound of footsteps through the weedy grass behind him, his hand automatically went to his waist where for thirty-five years he’d carried his gun, but of course now all he felt was his leather belt and his cell phone in his pocket.

“You the cop?” the man called as he crossed the yard.

Frank cleared his throat and gave his head a noncommittal nod, hoping the man wouldn’t ask about his lack of uniform or badge. “I’m Frank Roby. I called about the boat.”

“Right. I’m Carl Waters.” The man walked down to the boat and nudged it with the toe of his boot. “It’s seen better days, that’s for sure.”

“And it just showed up? No one’s come to claim it?”

“No, not that I know of.” The man scratched his head. “I don’t really know the neighbors. I just bought the house a few weeks ago, but I haven’t started work on it yet. Obviously.”

“You’re fixing the place up?” Frank eyed the house, which appeared even more menacing from this side.

“That’s the plan. We’re fixing up several old houses on this street, but it’s just one thing after another with this one. Problems we didn’t foresee—foundation, roof, walls. Here I was trying to preserve it, but it’s like the house would rather be torn down than rehabbed.” He nudged the boat again. “Boat doesn’t even matter all that much. It’s probably just a distraction from all the pitfalls with the house. Something about it catch your eye?”

The blue stripe on the side all but glittered in the hazy sunlight. “I don’t know. Maybe. I wanted to see it in person to be sure.”

“Whatever you need. I’ll give it a little while, see if anything comes of it, then I’ll probably have one of my guys haul it off for me. I’ll let you know before I do that.”

“I’d appreciate it.” Frank scanned the rest of the shore and yard for anything that stuck out to him. The dock was falling in on itself, with boards poking out at all angles, and stretched across a portion of the yard were the crumbled remains of some sort of wall. Crusty, sun-bleached bricks were tumbled together in small heaps, and curiously, a single brick sat in the bottom of the boat, next to the large, rusted-out hole. Instead of cracked with dry age, the brick was slimy with algae and barnacles.

The man’s cell rang and he answered, waving at Frank with his other hand. Frank nodded back and continued his study of the boat. The barnacle-speckled outboard motor, the mossy-green hull, the still-vibrant blue stripe—it clearly was Jay’s boat. Frank didn’t need serial numbers to know that. The vision of Jay running his hand along the side of the boat, the smudge of blue paint on his forehead that matched the stripe, and the sharp memory of the woman in the upstairs window were enough for him.

What had happened to them all? To Jay, his wife, and this boat? Frank gazed out at the river. It moved slowly, almost nonchalantly, but Frank knew the river wasn’t always so innocent. Water could hold secrets, mysteries, and lies as well as any person. Maybe better.