The state lab was theoretically closed on Saturday, but the medical examiner called Cy anyway and confirmed damage to both Ariel’s hands and her right wrist, consistent with someone trying to hang on to a nylon rope by wrapping it around a wrist. They confirmed that a cut and bruise on her cheekbone occurred far enough in advance of death to bruise. There were other injuries that didn’t fit well with river damage: bruising and cuts on Ariel’s back that might also be antemortem, a contusion on her bicep that didn’t quite align with a sweeper branch, along with a slicing cut on the right side of her head. She had vaginal abrasions, and a tampon was found pressed against her cervix. Her blood alcohol level was minuscule—perhaps a beer—and toxicology hadn’t come back for other substances. There was water in her lungs. Ariel had drowned, though another head injury—this one entirely consistent with river rock, fresh-cracked during winter or high water—would have rendered her unconscious and might ultimately have killed her on dry land.

Nothing, Harry explained, was conclusive. Ariel might have fallen and cut her face; she might have chosen to have rough sex on sharp gravel, without mentioning a tampon. She might have chosen not to wear her life preserver. The blow to her arm and the narrow blow to the side of her head could have been Graham’s branch, though both made no sense.

When Cy brought Graham in, Graham spoke of wild sex, of no complaints from Ariel, no mention of her period. He would never have slept with a woman having her period, and it was disgusting that she hadn’t told him.

We did it twice, he said. Then we cuddled. We climbed back in and the branch happened. I lost my paddle and barely stayed on the kayak, and when I saw her I threw the rope. She caught it, and I started to pull, and I saw her head hit the rock. Her face went blank and she let go and I watched the rope unwind from her wrist. I jumped in to find her, and almost drowned myself.