I asked if I could see the basement, and as we went downstairs, Mixy said, “What brings you to Retreat?”

“Business. But my husband and I are considering a vacation home somewhere on the coast.”

“What do you do?”

“Medical technology.”

“If you bought here, you’d be making a secure investment. These old houses are much sturdier than what they’re building now, in terms of hurricanes. I wouldn’t be worried.”

We were down in the cool of the basement, just a concrete floor and bare white walls. The only distinguishing feature was the water stain on the ceiling. From the outlet where the washer and dryer had stood, an air freshener made a little gasp.

I stood where Ray had set up the tripod to frame the transfusions. I applied the image onto the space: sedated dogs, the white blood flowing. But nothing came. I don’t know what I expected, some echo or residue, some clue.

“Do you have any questions?” Mixy said.

I turned abruptly. “I don’t think it’s quite right for us. Thanks, though.”

I headed upstairs, Mixy hurrying after me. “Is something wrong?”

“No.”

“Here.” She pressed a business card that doubled as a fridge magnet into my hand. “Just think about it. Even if it’s only an investment—”

“I don’t think so,” I said, and was out the door, crossing the lawn.

When I pulled away in the Focus, I saw Mixy in the doorway. She was looking in at the house as if to see whatever I’d seen.

5.

I headed for Salty’s Marina. In our very first interview Ray told me he and Romeo would sail to Mexico once they’d fixed up Funny Valentine. I didn’t know where Mixy had gotten the idea of “young professionals,” but it made sense they’d leave before commissioning someone to sell the house, then siphon the money through a holding company. But still, whenever I told myself Ray had calculated the danger and made plans to leave, something felt wrong. Ray had once told me he’d been leaned on by Rubicon; the technician named Rainer had paid him a visit. If Rubicon knew about the tapes, they’d come for him again.

I found the marina gate locked. I glanced around. A seagull made an irate squawk, the boats lightly knocked on the dock. I stuffed my notebook in the back pocket of my jeans, planted a foot in the chain-link fence, and hoisted myself over.

I was pretty sure I had the right place. I remembered walking down these same wooden planks, turning at the yellow boathouse, and seeing Romeo dabbing kebabs with lime juice.

I made the turn. Funny Valentine was moored. A black tarp was pulled over the deck, covered in sun-baked bird shit. Crouching down, I could see silver insulation on the cabin windows. Compared with its neighbors, the boat was filthy, a dark-green grime caked around the hull.