“I remember you,” she said to forestall the kick that came with the words Ray’s daughter. The German shepherd tilted his head as he appraised them. Knowing the next words out of Morgan’s mouth would be condolences, she seized on the opportunity. “What’s your dog’s name?”

“Kraken.”

“Kraken?”

“My housemate named him. She wanted to be able to use the phrase ‘release the kraken’ at least once a day.”

Emilia couldn’t help the smile that tugged at her lips. The idea was ridiculous, and therefore made her feel slightly less so. “Well, I appreciate that you didn’t let him pull me into a watery grave.” Not that I needed the help.

“I keep his tentacles trimmed.”

Emilia opened her mouth to crack a joke about the veterinary politics surrounding declawing and if they applied to de-tentacling, but stopped herself. She wasn’t Dr. Russo, here. She wasn’t sure if she ever wanted to be Dr. Russo again.

“I’ll get the clothes back to you. And wash them.”

“Don’t worry about it. Just drop them in my skiff. Last name Donovan is painted on it.”

“Okay.”

“Look, Emilia . . .”

“It’s fine.”

“No, I mean—” Morgan paused and took a deep breath. “Your dad was a friend of mine.”

“Oh.” At home in Boston, no one had known her father. She’d accepted that coming here things would be different, but this was the first time she’d had to face the reality of the life Ray Russo had led when she wasn’t with him. Of course he and Morgan were friends; they kept their boats at the same marina. Had he talked about his daughter? She didn’t remember seeing Morgan at the funeral, but then again she hadn’t paid much attention to the other mourners. Her own grief and its ensuing complications had consumed her.

The problem with condolences, she’d learned, was people expected the bereaved to say something in return. For a while she’d said “thank you,” but as the weeks passed and things didn’t get easier, “thank you” grew harder to say. She observed how other people responded in situations like this, watching movies and listening to podcasts, but how could she say “yes, he was a good man” when his drinking had deprived her of a father? How could she say “I am sorry for your loss, too,” when she had no idea what he had meant to these people?

Isn’t that why you came here? asked the voice in the back of her head that enjoyed playing devil’s advocate far more than conscience. No. She’d come here to settle his estate and get away from the dumpster fire of her own life, not to immerse herself in his. She didn’t want to know about his legacy.

Too much time had passed since Morgan had spoken and she had said “oh,” that terminal word, killer of conversations the world over. A chorus of peepers filled the silence of the chilly late May evening. She wrapped her hands around Nell’s collar and clung to it, feeling the warmth from her dog’s body against the backs of her fingers.