From the corner of her eye, she saw Ben glance over at her, not sure what to make of her comment. She laughed, so that he’d know she was joking at her own expense. “The bastard charged me for the full booking anyway.”

“You’d have thought he’d have given you fifty percent off.” He flashed her a smile, and it was as if everything came into focus. His tousled brown hair had gray flecks that had become more pronounced in the time she’d known him.

She took a too-big sip of her wine and watched Ben talk. He was boyish with soft blue eyes—you could almost picture his sixth-grade photo. In fact, there were youthful versions of Ben in photos all around Delilah’s. The walls were decorated with local photos from the town’s past, grainy 1970s snaps, sharp black-and-whites where people dressed too formally and posed in awkward clumps. Near the wooden hostess station, there was a photo of a young Ben Archer from the 1982 Kerrigan Falls High baseball team lineup, kneeling and holding his glove in his lap.

Since Todd’s disappearance, Ben Archer had been her lifeline to any details on Wickelow Bend or the case. In the weeks after the non-wedding, the mere sight of Ben Archer in her driveway had made her pulse quicken—hoping some thread of evidence of Todd’s whereabouts would come to light. They worked together to formulate new and wild theories about the disappearance, often talking well into the night.

His apartment was only five houses from Lara’s Victorian. Often they both worked late and then hit Delilah’s for a few drinks. After missing each other or arriving just as the other was leaving, a few months ago, they began making plans to show up at the same time. Now their dinners had become a habit.

Del interrupted again and launched into a description of the special: Southern mac and cheese casserole with ham and shrimp.

After they’d ordered, Lara leaned in conspiratorially. “You never told me about the funeral.”

Over the weekend, Ben had gone to his college roommate’s funeral in Charlottesville. The roommate, Walker, had only learned he’d had stage four pancreatic cancer two weeks ago.

“Well, it was a keen reminder of my mortality.” He hesitated. “His wife propositioned me at the luncheon.”

Lara’s eyes went wide. “No!”

“She did.” He nodded shyly. It was rare that he was divulging something like this to Lara.

“How?”

“How?” He looked perplexed and his eyebrow raised.

“I mean, did she let her hand wander while trying to secure a cucumber sandwich?”

He shook his head and took a sip of his Jameson, wincing as it went down. “No. She put her hand on my ass.”

Lara doubled over laughing. “Ewww, her husband was just buried.”

“I know,” he said gravely.

“So?” Lara pressed. “What did you do?”