“Mr. Susak is going to make him come to the memorial, and I’m going to watch his face. I told Mr. Susak I’d quit watching the kids if he didn’t tell me why Graham moved here, and he said Graham hit and killed a girl crossing a street. I guess they were going to charge him with negligent homicide but it didn’t stick.”

Polly watched Helen float on her back. “When did this happen?”

“Six months ago. He gets his license back today or tomorrow.”

“Maybe he’ll finally leave,” said Polly. “He should leave.”

“You know Harry wants to kill him,” said Connie. “And Drake, of course.”

“People don’t go around killing people,” said Polly.

Polly didn’t know that Ariel’s life preserver had been found the night before. As it happened, the person who found it in a willow tangle on an island downstream from Pine Creek was subsequently arrested at a fishing access site for smoking marijuana. Already, in 2002, this wasn’t an arrest most police were eager to bother with, but Cy was forced into it. He’d been dealing with a fender bender at the Mayor’s Landing take-out when a young man named Shane Bobbin pulled up, his raft haloed in smoke. Shane, waving a red Stearns preserver in the air, swallowed his joint as Cy watched.

Shane Bobbin said he’d found this preserver high in a thicket on the island where Graham said he’d frolicked with Ariel. Cy did not listen to specifics and assumed that the preserver was marooned by high spring water from an accident the summer before, like the poor Yellowstone Park drowning victim’s leg. Shane pointed out that the preserver was unbleached by the sun, without a year’s worth of wind-borne dust or bird shit or leaves. He planned to keep it—it was at least a $50 model—but the blotch of blood near the neck killed the urge. So it was timely that he’d run into Cy. In a way.

Cy bagged the preserver, which fit the description of the one Vinnie bought for Ariel, and arrested Shane for possession. Cy knew he’d been remiss: He hadn’t followed up on Connie’s or the family’s comments about Graham. He didn’t entirely trust Harry’s assessment about the bruise or cut on Ariel’s face or arm or the marks on her hand or wrist, despite Harry’s considerable training. No one understood the power of the river. People always wanted an explanation, and they always wanted someone to blame. But an accident was an accident. Blame God, thought Cy. Blame a long roll down the river. Even now, the blood, the cut and bruised face—maybe she’d fallen. Why expect the boy to remember everything?