I take in the exposed dark timber beams in the white plaster ceiling, the wood-burning stove built into a deep stone fireplace. The wide board floor is covered with rush mats just like the ones in the cellar, and between the two curtained windows is an inlaid mahogany and satinwood writing desk. The computer that was on it has been taken to the labs, Marino informs me.

I begin to walk around the library table. It’s at least ten feet long with a parquetry top and an elaborately hand-carved base. In the center is an empty crystal decanter, several small glasses, and another clock tick-tocking, this one tortoiseshell, gilt and colorful enamel, possibly late eighteenth century and musical. I check my watch. It’s now exactly four minutes past three P.M. The clock has been synced with the others.

“Was there any other indication that Chanel Gilbert worked in here? What else was on the desk?” I begin looking at the framed photographs of sea turtles, eagle rays and barracuda.

There are rainbow parrot fish, Spanish lobster, a queen conch and a goliath grouper near the shadowy carcasses of sunken ships. The water is vivid shades of green and blue, and sunlight filters through it from the surface.

“In here we collected the computer, one of these Mac Pro desktops.” Marino watches me look around at dive scenes vibrantly reflected in the mirrored sconces. “Plus we got her phone. She also has a router but there was no point in taking that, the TV and other electronics. Not at that time.”

“What about a laptop, an iPad, any other devices?”

He shakes his head and I wonder who doesn’t have a laptop or an iPad these days. But we don’t discuss it. I take my time perusing the sea creatures and sunken vessels as another bad feeling billows up from the darkest depths of my psyche. It slowly comes to me that what I’m seeing is familiar.

I look more closely and begin to recognize the scattered remains of the Greek steamer The Pelinaion that sank during World War II. I know The Hermes, The Constellation and many other shipwrecks in the Bermuda Triangle. Where I’ve been diving many times. Where I was shot on June 15. Exactly two months ago to the day.

“You didn’t say anything about these.” I indicate the photographs, and I don’t mean to sound accusatory but I can’t help myself.

Where I was shot.

“Paintings of cows, photos of fish.” Marino shrugs as he looks around. “What’s the big deal?”

Where I was shot!

“The diver here. Here. Here …” I walk around pointing, my right thigh throbbing. “It’s the same person. Isn’t this her? Isn’t this Chanel Gilbert?”