“I’m sorry to hear that,” Sheriff Kahn says carefully. “What’d I tell you about rooting around in old messes? Let sleeping dogs lie. That’s what my grandma always said. Don’t get up,” he adds, though I haven’t offered to. “I’ll find my own way out.”

Before he can slip outside, I blurt out, “Don’t you want to know where she is?”

He stops, pivots, frowns at me. “Where…?”

“Kaycee Mitchell.” I force myself to look at him. “You’re not even curious where she ended up?”

“Not really,” he says, with a thin smile. “None of my business.”

“Florida,” I tell him, and for just a second, he freezes. Another ember sparks in the darkness. “Sarasota. You’ve got a timeshare down there, don’t you? Or was it a friend who loans you a place?”

“Take care of yourself, Abigail.” Sheriff Kahn opens the door. “Try and get some sleep. You’re not looking too good.”

—

I’ve been avoiding Condor’s calls, along with everybody else’s, and hiding out whenever I see him coming, no matter how long he stands on the porch. Now—three days after my dad died—he finally gives up knocking. But I hear a rustling sound and, after I’m certain he’s gone, I swing open the door to the night air. Tucked behind the screen door is an envelope marked with my name. Inside, enfolded in a soft bit of cotton, I find a beautiful fishing hook and a handmade lure, feathered and beaded in rich stripes of gold and blue, work my dad would have found impressive.

A short note is attached. I hope you catch your big fish.—Dave

Seeing his first name, a name he almost never uses, jolts something in me. I suddenly think I’m going to cry, am overwhelmed with the memory of his mouth on mine, the urgency of him, his anger, his concern.

Carefully, I rewrap the fishing hook and stuff it into the pocket of my dad’s old work vest. It still smells a little like he did: like car oil and Old Spice and wood shavings.

The note, too. I can’t bring myself to throw it out.

Dave.

—

The team returns to Chicago, and I bury my father with only TJ in attendance, under a bleak sky hinting at a storm that never comes. Although a few other people expressed interest in showing up for the funeral—Monty’s mother, Condor, and Brent among them—I know I won’t be able to stand the weight of their sympathy and how little I deserve it. Besides, it seems fitting that my father’s burial is as lonely and brutal as his death.

Afterward, I stop at the gas station for two six-packs and what my dad would have considered party food: frozen mozzarella sticks, Hostess crumb cakes, nacho cheese dip from a jar, salsa and chips. The house is hot, and it smells. I haven’t yet been able to bring myself to start cleaning, and there are week-old dirty dishes in the sink attracting a swarm of flies.