“The reason my mother and her brother were estranged.” His hands grip the edge of the dock as he stares out into the darkness. “Lily isn’t as innocent as she looks. Seems her specialty in school wasn’t just journalism, it was investigative journalism. She tracked her grandfather’s problems to the collapse of the family estate. It was supposed to have money in it but did not.”

The estate. I feel a niggling. “Nick told you this?”

“Yeah. He said it was on my dime, so he owed it to me.” He exhales a vexed breath. “Not that it tells me much.”

“It may.” I zero in on the niggling. “My father mentioned her family estate. That’s when he went off about John Doe. John Doe? Albany?”

His head turns fast. After staring at me for a minute, he swears softly, yanks his legs from the water, and, grabbing my hand, pulls me up. I have to scramble as he walks full stride down the dock and across the beach, but I’m willing to do that if something I’ve said helps.

The closer we get to his house, though, the greater my qualms. This isn’t where I want to be—not with my memories, not with Jack in the flesh. But I can’t quite pull my hand free. I know what he wants and right now, it isn’t me. It’s his computer. And I want to see what he finds.

The Sabathian stairs are at the far end of the bluff. Not straight like ours, they tack midway around a scrub pine. Same pine as twenty years ago? Looks it. Same stone path leading to the same back stairs, same open deck, same kitchen door. But that’s where same ends. The kitchen, once as traditional as ours, is now white and steel. Also redone, the hall is pale gray and mirrored, and the living room’s cushiony upholstered furniture has been replaced with pieces that are modern and sleek. Shelves piled with books offer the only warmth, but they’re tiny islands in a sea of gloss.

The wife, I think, looking around in dismay.

Jack says a chagrined, “Yeah,” and scrubs the back of his head. “Not exactly me, is it.”

I’m spared answering by what sounds like a herd overhead but turns out to be Guy, who gallops down the stairs and leaps at Jack, who scrubs at his flanks before setting him down. I’m thinking the dog should be taught not to greet a person that way, when Jack moves on to the chrome plank of a desk. As furniture goes, it’s no warmer than the rest, but at least the strew of books, papers, electronics, and chargers make it look used.