There is no change in Jack’s body. I would know. Our arms and thighs are touching. But I do sense a shift in mood. Sure enough, when I look at him, the grooves on his forehead are deep. His eyes meet mine, but only long enough for me to see the shadows there, before he looks away. He seems to be considering what I’ve said—something about my father’s memory or about Lily’s motives—no, not either of those but something else—actually considering whether to broach it, because he’s chewing on the corner of his mouth again. I’m watching that when he murmurs, “Maybe my mother sent her.”

My eyes fly to his. The words don’t fit a man who is an educated professional, who has established a successful business and screams survivor from every pore. That man should have accepted what logic insists. And still, I sense that he needs me to say it.

I jiggle my leg against his, just the tiniest bit. He is wearing shorts, and his skin is warm, not gorilla hairy but enough to add abrasion. I always liked being able to feel that difference between us. “Oh, Jack,” I say softly, “you know that’s not true.”

“You think she’s definitely dead,” he whispers, eyes haunted.

Hope dies hard, I know. But I’ve never seen this vulnerability before in Jack Sabathian. Add the sun glinting off unruly hair, and he could be ten years old. My heart breaks as I nod.

He nods back. After a minute, he returns to rubbing the dog’s ear with his thumb. I think of the soothing that comes from touching a rabbit’s foot, a lucky penny, even rosary beads. He clearly gets something from Guy’s silky ear. When he finally speaks, his voice holds surrender. “She drowned. It’s the only thing that makes sense. The question is how she got in the water.”

And there we are, back at Square One. I don’t look at him, don’t want to see accusation. It’s been nice sitting here talking with him.

“I’ve missed this,” he says quietly. “Never had it with anyone else. The easy talk. The honesty. The silence.”

“Not even your wife?” I ask.

He seems startled by the question, perhaps uncomfortable, like he’s cheated on me and is caught, which is both sad and adorable at the same time. “Anne told you?” he asks.

I nod. “With pleasure.”

“It didn’t last. Did she tell you that, too?”

I nod again. “What happened?”

“You.”

“Me.”

“She didn’t measure up.” Before I can make an evasive maneuver, he is pressing his face to the back of my neck.

“Jack.”

He inhales as he pulls away, and eyes me with expectance.

“What was that for?” I can’t be angry, not after what he just said. But I’m curious.