I dash up the stairs, not waiting for Ben to follow. We were only inside for a few minutes. They have to still be here. I rush through the courtyard, cutting across to the parking lot when I see them. A figure in a dark raincoat, hood pulled up.

“Hey!” The rain swallows the sound. They’re almost to the sole car in the lot, a black pickup truck. Getting away. I break into a sprint, ignoring the burn in my lungs after the first hundred yards. I’m hardly a runner, but I make up the distance between us well enough. I catch them with key in lock, slow myself to a stop, and, wheezing, second-guess everything. Up close, they look harmless—their shoulders slouch, and I caught them lumbering the last few feet to the car. This isn’t a fit killer with the strength to grip a young girl’s neck for three minutes straight. But if they are, somehow, the murderer, should I even be this close? Why the hell do I never think of a plan?

My audible gasps for breath make the decision for me. A bewildered Frank Quinn turns at the noise and blinks at me from the recesses of his rain hood. “Yes?” His voice bears the wary edge of uncertainty.

“Hi, uh, sorry to bother you,” I rasp. “Did you leave flowers at the pool door?”

“Yes, why?”

Frank Quinn. Grandfather of Morgan. Brother of Caroline—who also died in the pool. “Is today the anniversary?”

He nods, and embarrassment washes through me. I kicked up a paranoid fuss over a bouquet with a note. This isn’t a movie. Of course Natalie’s killer didn’t leave a flower arrangement.

I can sense Frank has more to say, but his eyes soften as he takes me in. “You’re getting soaked. Come on.” We head for the field, where the stadium seats create a dry overhang. And as we corral ourselves underneath, Frank removing his hood as I shove my hands deep into the soaked pockets of my jacket, Ben jogs up. Sans panting, I note. Ben’s in shape.

“What’s going on?”

“This is Morgan’s grandfather,” I say. “It’s the anniversary.”

Ben does some mental calculation. “Oh, right. October sixteenth. I forgot. Hi, Mr. Quinn.” He dips his head in a gesture of respect.

“Benjamin. I presume your grandfather is well?”

I feel doubly silly having attempted to introduce them. Of course they know each other. Ben asserts that, yes, his grandfather is fine, and I stare at my feet. Flex my toes. My shoes are soaked through, and I wonder at a trip that’s accomplished little more than freezing me through. I’ve discovered that Natalie wouldn’t have had time for small talk with her killer. So what?

“Did you find what you were looking for?”

I startle to attention, finding Frank looking at me beseechingly. “What?”