“I’m sure you would! But I am going with a ‘no comment.’ What else do you want to know about the day Eben drowned? I wasn’t there when he died; I was in Lewiston getting a crown replaced. I don’t know how he went overboard but I can guess. The man was seventy-seven going on twenty-seven. I used to tell him he couldn’t do everything he did when he was young but he laughed and said, ‘Maybe you can’t.’”

“That sounds a little harsh.”

“No worse than the shit I gave him.”

“Could he have committed suicide?”

“The man loved himself too much to end it. He must have lost his balance and fallen, hooking the string of decoys. There’s no other explanation.”

“What did you two talk about that morning?” I asked.

“Our favorite Taylor Swift songs.”

“Be serious.”

“We talked about what we always talked about. Politics. How this country had a last chance to save itself and blew it, and now we’re all fucked. Eben was a moon bat, but he was a good debater who kept me on my toes, and at least he could admit when his arguments had holes in them, which was always.”

“So you argued that morning?”

He tilted his narrow hips and rested his hand on the grip of the Glock, as he had a habit of doing. “We debated. There’s a difference.”

“Did he ever remove his personal flotation device in your presence?”

“No, he did not.”

“In your experience did he ever remove his life vest when he was on the water?”

He cast a glance at the berm at the end of the barn. “Are we going to shoot or not? Because I’m running out of patience.”

I made a mental note that he hadn’t answered. “Have you ever met the witness who saw him alone in the boat and said he wasn’t wearing his PFD?”

“I don’t recall.”

“You don’t recall?”

“I’ve seen him in his new Rubicon often enough—this is the only road to the top. I’ve been behind him in line at the variety with those girls he supposedly lives with. It doesn’t mean we’re acquainted.”

His prior evasions had been more artful. “It sounds like you’ve forgotten his name?”

“Why should I remember it? All I know about the guy is he’s a meeks who lives with a couple of red-headed sluts on the hill.”

“What’s a meeks?”

“Pretty boy piece of shit. Forgive me for not giving a fuck about him.”

“I don’t believe you, Mr. Jewett.”

He removed his glasses and cleaned the gunpowder residue from the lenses with a crisp white handkerchief. It gave him a moment to focus on something other than my statement. “And why is that?”

“Because you’re too smart to have forgotten the name of the last man who saw your friend alive.”