He was flushed and blinky. Drake was not a demonstrative man, at least about sad things. Sometimes this amused Polly, but Drake had grown up in a shitty, run-of-the-mill abusive family, and he kept things tight. He was good at looking impassive—he and Ned and Harry and Vinnie played poker all winter—and having a subtle listening face was not a bad thing for an actor.

Right now he looked almost as ruined as he might have if he hadn’t retired. During two years of working for him, Ariel was often the only person he’d see in a day or even a week. Everyone in their own world of sadness.

“I’m sure she didn’t like that little shit Graham,” said Drake. “I’m sure she wouldn’t willingly touch him.”

No one can be sure, thought Polly.

“Harry didn’t want the kid around today. He didn’t want to look at him. He says she has rope burns, like she caught up with the kayak and wrapped the rope around her right hand and was holding on with her left. Like she tried to save herself.”

Despite the risk of maiming the car again, Polly decided to take the groceries to Ned herself, because all she could see were Ariel’s hands, outstretched, bloodless, mangled.

She found Ned in the office, working on the calendar. He’d already heard. It wasn’t the sort of thing he would have told her over the phone. It was a horrible detail.

“How could Graham not have seen her reaching the rope?”

“Who knows what it’s like when you’re at water level, drowning.” Ned slammed things around, trying to get out of Peake’s to go help Harry on the hill.

“I hate him,” said Polly. “I can’t bear to think of this.”

“We’re done after the party. I’ll talk to Vinnie.”

In the kitchen, Graham was folding napkins again. She took her time looking in the walk-in for the stew Ned had made, but Graham folded on, placid and careful.

“How are you doing? Is it upsetting, or are you relieved?” asked Polly.

“About what?” he asked.

Polly went back into the walk-in and nibbled on some pecorino, thinking about narcissism, thinking about how a person who was truly nuts would likely fail to recognize this fact. When she could no longer feel her nose, she grabbed the containers she needed for dinner, cracked the door, and saw to her relief that Graham was gone.

Polly was sliding down the hall when she heard him laugh through the doorway of the closed bar. There he was, with a new waitress named Emily: laughing, pink-cheeked, human, holding a corkscrew just out of reach, teasing her.

Graham didn’t have Ariel in his brain, anywhere. She was gone.