I watched as a family with two toddlers bustled into the diner, dragging along massive strollers and booster seats, one of the kids wailing for his “baa-baa.” Arms shot up at the few occupied tables, diners calling for their checks. Deek had no patience for tiny humans. I had to speed this up.

“You sound sure.”

Jung bit into his lower lip, eyed a spot on the wall above my head. “I am. I talked to him that morning. In fact, I’m probably one of the last people on earth to talk to him. He was his same old self—talking shit, full of plans, ready for the next big thing, maybe a little distracted, but nothing major. He had something for me, he said, and he wanted me to stop by and get it. He seemed serious about it. I told him, ‘Dude, no way, there’s like a monsoon breathing down our necks.’ I told him I’d catch him mañana, but when I showed up—” Jung stopped, gulped. “If I’d gone over there, maybe . . .” His chin fell to his chest. This was the thing that propelled him, the missed chance, the guilt that grew out of it. “I saw them tow his boat in, then his body.” Jung looked up, despair all over a face that wasn’t used to handling it. “Somebody killed him, I know it.”

“Who would want to do that?”

Jung shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe a lot of people? Tim was an ‘in your face’ kind of guy, but he wasn’t a prick . . . well, not a big one. He was just living his life, you know? I’ve been wracking my brain, trying to think who’d take things this far. I know those stuffed shirts at the marina didn’t like him. They’re old-timers, real set in their ways, and Tim liked to have a good time. He could sometimes get a little out-there. The guy in the office, the one who got the complaints, ragged on him all the time. Maybe him?”

“Family? Girlfriend? Wife?”

“There’s only his mother and brother. His dad died years ago. Tim was gay. He wasn’t married, or anything. Maybe somebody he met? He liked the bar scene. I don’t think it was Stephen. They weren’t close, but you don’t drown your own brother.

“Tim wasn’t some stoner. He dabbled, okay—who doesn’t?—but he wasn’t stupid about it. And he’d never get shit-faced on the boat. Another reason I know for sure? He wasn’t wearing a life jacket or slicker when they found him. It’s raining buckets, wind’s whipping around mad crazy, and he goes up on deck, out-of-his-head drunk, with nothing on? No way. Not Tim.”

“Unless he wasn’t concerned about his safety.”