He was fast approaching the height of ecstasy—standing at the bathroom mirror, a Hooters calendar splayed across the counter before him—when the doorbell rang.

“Booker, can you get that!”

“I’m busy, Mom!”

“Busy doing what?”

“I’m … cleaning the garden hose!”

“Well, get the door. I’m not decent!”

“Neither am I!”

“Do what?”

“I said I’m not … ah, Christ!” His passion doused, Booker zipped up, shut his eyes, and imagined his geometry teacher naked. His erection quickly subsided to a less noticeable bulge in his shorts. He was still shirtless when he flung open the front door to find two uniformed policemen standing before him.

“Booker Flamont?”

“Who wants to know?”

“My name is Sheriff Curtis Clark, Killington County. This is Deputy Taylor. We’d like you to come down to the station and answer a few questions.”

“What’s this pertaining about?”

“We’ll discuss that at the station. Now, if you wouldn’t mind getting dressed.”

“Well, whatever it is, I didn’t do nothin’. I was at Dougie Scagnetti’s playing Xbox.”

Coach Hickham had gone to bed long after midnight, but had passed the remainder of the night staring at the ceiling and replaying the incident at the river over and over in his mind.

It wasn’t until the alarm sounded at six that he lurched back to the present. He shut off the alarm and came stiffly up from the mattress. Tired as he was, his mind was acutely alert. His thoughts went to Savannah. She hadn’t come home by the time he’d gone to bed. Nor had she told him when she left or where she was going. Although they rarely spoke these days, this was unusual for her.

Since the day they had moved to Killington, she had never come home late, save for the odd occasion when time got away from her in the photo lab at school. Hickham had never found it necessary to impose a curfew. Last night, before retiring, he had tried her cell phone twice but was told by a recorded voice that the phone was out of the service area. That had been six hours ago.

He grabbed his bathrobe and went down the hall to Savannah’s room. The door was closed. He knocked but got no answer. He opened the door and found her bed empty and made.

The phone rang, startling him. He rushed to the kitchen and fumbled for the receiver. “Savannah?”

“Coach?”

“Yeah, it’s Hickham. Who is this?”

“Hey, Coach, it’s Wyndle.”

“Principal Hodges. Is this about my daughter?”

“Your daughter? No, this is about football.”

“Savannah didn’t come home last night.”

“Well, you know teenagers. Listen, Jimmy, reason I’m calling is to see if you wouldn’t mind saying a few words at the memorial gathering.”

“What memorial gathering?”