It was the second time he’d tried that line. His lower lip didn’t move as he said it, and she thought of how odd this was before she leaned toward him. “I’m not the one who hit and killed a girl,” said Polly. “And I know Ariel wasn’t in love with you. I know you made that up. Did you hurt her?”

“Give it up, Poll,” said Ned, behind her. “Graham, save yourself and do some work.”

How long had he been there, or Helen, wailing and tugging on her dress, holding the old alarm clock? The potatoes needed to come out. Polly backed away and the party as a whole came into focus, another thirty arrivals generating a large noise. Why should a drowning stop their happiness, when everyone died anyway?

Jane and Drake helped at the bar and Josie darted around with shrimp and cheeses. Polly dealt with potatoes and poured herself a glass of wine and shucked. Across the yard, Merle tilted his head and smiled patiently at a story from a deaf man. Polly wanted him to live forever.

Cy stewed all day, right through Ariel’s memorial and two hail-related car accidents, before he drove up to the Poor Farm and unburdened himself to Harry.

Graham, who had arrived late to help dig—Harry noted his puffy face, and did not inquire—was gone by then, off to help with Maude’s party. Harry, listening to Cy’s story, was perfectly aware that Shane was a dealer. He was aware of other things, too, having talked them over with Shari Swenson, having led Cy through a preliminary talk on speakerphone with the state lab. Harry thought things over as he drove back to town, showered and dressed for his grandmother’s party, and headed for the jail.

Shane, a local kid, said there was no way the preserver had been left in the thicket to dry. It was at least thirty feet into dense underbrush—he’d scratched himself up getting it. Someone had thrown it, but it wouldn’t have been Ariel, who’d been a year behind him in grade school. She was strong, but not strong enough to throw the jacket that high and far.