Thank you, her mother mouthed the words over Isabel’s head. Olivia kicked at the grass and wandered toward the back of the house. Isabel was wailing now; it was time for her nap besides.

That night, Isabel would tell her father on the phone how Mommy used a word she wasn’t allow to ( fuck, fuck, fuck), and her father in his office in Montreal said that was okay, even Mommy sometimes slips.

The squad car arrived an hour later. Laura had gotten Isabel down for a nap. A cup of chamomile tea for her own nerves. The lights flashed silently in the drive. A large man with red curls and muttonchops came to the screen door. Isabel had woken, excited now, and wanted to tell everyone she (not Olivia) was the one who found the thing.

Yes, dear, her mother said. Olivia kicked her sister and muttered for her to shut up.

But I found the merman’s mask!

Enough, Laura said and opened the screen door.

Bunty Phillips stepped inside and removed his hat. He wore a blue windbreaker. The room seemed suddenly cramped by his presence. Laura told him where the pelvis was and pointed through the window toward the front lawn.

May I talk to the girls? he asked. Procedure, he explained.

Olivia stepped forward from behind her mother. Laura held her shoulders from behind.

You were with your sister?

Yes sir.

But she was the one who found it?

Olivia nodded.

How far down the beach?

By the estuary.

Isabel squirmed in front of her mother too.

Bunty squatted down to Isabel’s level and ran a hand through his reddish curls. He twirled his hat in one hand, like a Frisbee. He had pale blue eyes, a double chin. His hair looked like copper wires.

You two want to show us exactly where you found it?

Do they have to? Laura protested. Really?

Bunty glanced toward the living room window and the water beyond. The bluefish were running that time of year. That was all he could think about, how, on a fine day like this, he’d be out on the water dropping his lines. But his boat had been in dry dock since last October, and his job had become that of a messenger boy, a pickup man, driving up and down the whole goddamn coast, collecting things in plastic bags and charting them with the GPS the government had loaned him. Frankly, he was sick of it.

Bunty lifted himself off his knees and set his hat back on his head.

No, he exhaled. They don’t have to.

Olivia glanced from Bunty to her mother. Bunty watched her, the older daughter. His own grandchild was about her age.