She explains that when she heard about the 911 call she asked Bryce to take a photograph of the tattoo and e-mail it to her right away. She hands me the phone, and the marijuana leaf above Bryce’s right ankle is Crayola green but dull. It’s about the size of a quail egg.

Now that I’m looking at the image I’m not surprised that none of us at work today were aware of the inconspicuous temporary tattoo. I don’t see how anyone could notice it without being in close proximity to Bryce as he has his sock pulled down or off. Or maybe the wrong person somehow heard about Bryce’s botched party trick, and from there the detail somehow found its way into the false 911 complaint made to the Cambridge Police Department earlier this evening.

“The pool of suspects should be small,” Lucy concludes. “It had to be someone who knew what Bryce was doing last night.”

“What did he tell you?” I ask.

“That he got a fake tattoo at dinner with friends. Nothing was posted on social media, and he hasn’t a clue how anybody would have known beyond the buddies he was with. That’s the extent of his note to me. I’ve not actually talked to him.”

“Maybe we should.” I take another sip of water and try not to think about how empty my stomach is or how late it’s getting.

I block out the grand cru Chablis Benton and I didn’t drink, and the clammy shoes that feel glued to my bare feet. I keep checking my phone. According to Marino’s latest update a few minutes ago, the tent’s not completely set up yet because there was a problem arranging the panels around several large trees. A section of scaffolding collapsed. Then the canopied roof didn’t fit quite right. Or something like that.

“Have you ever told Bryce that when you were growing up in Miami, some of the kids in school called you a Florida cracker?” Lucy asks that next, and I’m feeling pelted by rotten eggs from my past.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” I reply.

“Tailend Charlie again, and he had to get it from somewhere. That’s why I’m asking.”

“Sister Twister and Florida cracker are mentioned in the latest rhyming tripe?”

“Yes,” Lucy says, and indignation stirs in its secret place.

I feel shame that was dormant but the anger is very much alive as my privacy, my past, continues to be invaded, distorted and vandalized by some anonymous bastard bard.

“Let’s get to the bottom of this,” I say from my metal chair as I dig my hands into the pockets of my windbreaker. “Bryce knows something even if he doesn’t think he does. Let’s ask him.”