“Do you find it infantilizing when people call me Bobby?”

“No. You choose to be called that. That’s fine. It’s not the same thing, anyway.”

“How is it different?” I ask.

“It’s different,” she says, “because we’re not the same person.” She touches my cheek with one hand and brings her mouth to mine for a quiet kiss. “And I’m glad for that.” Her forehead falls against my chest, so I stroke her hair. I hold her shoulders as she sinks into my sternum and falls silent for some time. “I’m going to take that bath now.”

I say, “Okay,” and pat her back as a sign of release, but she stays pressed against me, so I wrap my arm around her again and wait for a clue to what she needs. Of course, I can’t read her mind, so I do nothing. Finally, after nearly a whole minute lost, she peels herself away, touching my cheek one more time before trudging upstairs to bathe and grieve.

•  •  •

The marina is busy as usual. Happy families. Happy friends. I’m holding a bucket filled with rags and bottles of cleaning solution when someone slaps me on the back and says, “Robert.” Frank McAlister holds out his hand.

I shake it. “Frank.”

“How you doing, buddy?”

“I’m all right.”

“Are you? Because listen, I heard about what happened at your house. I mean, no one can believe it. That’s just a nightmare. And you’re the one who, you know—found him, right? Because, man, you can’t unsee that, can you? Better you than Jonah or Elizabeth, though, right? You do what you have to do.”

“Yes you do. How’s everything at your house, Frank?”

“I mean, you know, relatively speaking, I can’t complain. Headed to your boat? Great. I’ll walk you. So hey, listen, if you don’t mind me asking, how long had the kid been out there?”

I mind. “Almost three days, they think.”

He winces. “Aw, man. I can’t imagine the smell. That’s just—was it as bad as they say?”

“Too much CSI,” I tell him, but holy hell. Frank is into this, isn’t he? It’s been on his mind. He’s been entertaining visions of vultures pecking cold flesh, maybe the neighbor’s bichon with Nick’s femur in its mouth, screams and sirens, that sort of thing. Fantasies.

He finally takes the hint and starts blabbering about other shit—like how difficult his life’s been ever since his front desk gal quit, so now his front office is a clusterfuck—and I’m itching to shut him up, but when we reach my slip, he says, “I’ll never get over this boat, Robert. She sure is a beauty.”