“Izzy.”

She waited.

“He’ll turn up,” Seth said. “It’s not like he never did this before.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean there were times when you called over here asking about him.”

“Not for years.” She could hardly even remember though. She wanted to go home, crawl into bed.

Seth bit at his lower lip, lengthening his chin, running a hand over his stubble—tinted blue in the evening light—to his neck with the prominent Adam’s apple. “Like I said, Nephy and me will help.”

“Thanks, Seth.” She felt a wave of exhaustion and steadied herself against the boat.

“You okay, there? Need anything?”

“I’m okay. Just got to get home. Thank you.”

She started to leave, looked back. Seth had leaned against the boat again and a tide of evening shadows lapped his feet. But it was Izzy who found herself floating away into darkness.

◆◆◆

By the time she got to the shack, her head felt as if someone had been battering her with dirty shoes like the ones hanging in Leanne’s tree. Izzy fell into bed and gathered Cyrus’s pillows into her arms. Together the pillows formed an effigy of a man.

Except for the odd job that kept him away, she had slept with Cyrus beside her for seven years; they had slept together on and off—in camp sites, abandoned buildings, or the back of his truck—for two before that. How could she ever sleep again without him?

Heart-Shaped Box

In Twentynine Palms, Izzy headed for the vegetable beds but found them deserted. The virid leaves; a blush creeping up the faces of the tomatoes and peppers. For a moment she thought, with a pain in her chest as if someone had squeezed her heart like a fruit: Cyrus must have been here to water early this morning. But—she caught herself—of course, that wasn’t true.

Izzy opened the gate. The surface of the swimming pool lay smooth as tinted glass. Twin palm trees whispered to each other. How long had they stood there, like lovers? Years and years. The café rested under its awning. Cool inside air made the sweat on Izzy’s skin congeal.

Ted squinted up at her from behind his round, wire-rimmed glasses and rubbed his chin. “Hey, Izzy. Did he show up yet?”

“Not yet.” Izzy stared blankly at the yellow X-eyed smiley face on Ted’s T-shirt.

The first night Izzy and Cyrus spent together, they listened to Nevermind on a boom box he’d found at a garage sale. They lay on a rock, their legs spread out in front of them. Their legs, almost the same length from hipbone to ankle. Their hands almost exactly the same size, too, palm to palm. The wind howled and tried to force its way through their woven blankets and under their clothes, but Cyrus had lit a fire and wrapped her in his arms.

“I don’t think he was murdered,” Cyrus had said.

Izzy had pushed a black lock of hair off his forehead. “Me either.”