There were plenty of things that Archie wasn’t good at. He knew that. He could tick them off like the names of family members. He hadn’t been a good husband. He’d been weak, self-indulgent, and careless. He’d given in to temptation, and lied. He’d disappointed the people who depended on him. But he was a good detective, always a good detective—always that. He could find killers. He could save lives.

The front of his head throbbed. He pushed a thumb and forefinger against his sinuses. He could taste the river water at the back of his throat, rusty and dank like flat cola. It was the middle of the night, but sleep was still far off. He was vaguely aware that Claire had gone downstairs to meet her sister. He hadn’t known that Claire had a sister. But she was here now. That was good. The sister would be here for Claire, Claire for Henry. That meant that Archie could go and do the thing he was good at—his job.

They had to get back to the park. They had to re-create Henry’s last steps. Archie’s team was already down there. They had to stay ahead of the flood.

He’d apparently lost his boots in the river. The sweats and hospital booties would get him out the door. But he had to go back to his apartment to change before he could work.

But first Archie had to talk to the boy.

The boy had to have gone in the river at least a half mile from where Henry had been found. There had been thousands of people between them. But Gretchen had taught Archie not to believe in coincidence, and he wondered now if the attack on Henry and the boy going into the Willamette were related somehow. Had Henry seen something? Had he tried to help?

Archie leaned forward and cupped a hand on Henry’s arm. It was cooler than it should have been, like something not quite alive. Henry’s eyes were closed, and a faint sheen of sweat glazed his forehead. A vein zigzagged across his temple.

“Keep an eye on things here for me,” Archie said. His voice sounded rough and loud in the silence.

He stepped out of the room and nearly ran into Susan, who had her hands filled with individually wrapped packets of saltines and was carrying a tower of foil-topped plastic containers of orange juice pinned between her chin and fist.

“I’ve got food,” she said. Her raspberry-colored hair looked especially wild, electric from the rain and hospital lights. She seemed to see him notice it, and blew at a piece that had flopped over one eye. It fluttered up, and then fell back exactly where it had been. She’d taken off her yellow raincoat and tied it around her waist.