“The thing is . . . I’ve not spent . . . the time with them . . . that I should have . . .”

“It’s OK, Nevin, you will.”

He grunted and forced a small smile. I could tell he didn’t believe me.

“My youngest . . . Alexander . . . he’s . . . a good boy . . . a bit bashful . . .”

“Yes—”

“Tall, like me . . . married a nice woman, a . . . a history teacher . . . I believe . . .”

His voice grew thinner. He rolled his eyes away from me.

“Keep going, Nevin. What do you want me to write?”

“I missed their wedding,” he rasped. “Business meeting . . .”

He looked back at me as if pleading.

“My youngest child . . . I . . . told him . . . it couldn’t be helped . . .” His right hand fell limply across his chest. “It could have been helped.”

I asked again what he wanted me to write, even though I already knew. He blinked his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Land

LeFleur entered his house quietly. The sun had already set. He had the notebook tucked into a briefcase.

“Jarty? Where have you been?”

Patrice appeared out of the kitchen. She wore jeans and a lime-green T-shirt that draped loosely on her thin frame. Her feet were bare.

“Sorry.”

“You left this morning, you didn’t call all day.”

“You’re right.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing. Some junk floated up on the north shore. I had to drive up and check it out.”

“You still could have called.”

“You’re right.”

She paused, looking at him. She scratched her elbow. “So? Anything interesting?”

“Not really.”

“I have dinner.”

“I’m tired.”

“I made all this food.”

“OK, OK.”

An hour later, having finished the meal, LeFleur said he wanted to watch the soccer game. Patrice rolled her eyes. He knew she would. He remembered a time when their communication was kinder, their exchanges tinged with the gentility of love. They had lost that in the wreckage of Lilly’s death.

“I’m going upstairs then,” Patrice said.

“I won’t be long.”

“Are you all right, Jarty?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah. If the game’s boring, I won’t watch the whole thing.”

She turned without response and climbed the steps. LeFleur went into the back room, flicked on the television, then carefully removed the notebook from his briefcase. He knew everything he was doing was wrong. Taking this notebook from the raft. Failing to inform the higher authorities. Lying to Patrice. It was as if he had tumbled into a rabbit hole and couldn’t stop himself from falling in deeper. Part of him kept pushing to go on, take the next step, learn the secrets of this unexpected entry into his life.

He reread the message on the notebook’s inside cover:

To whoever finds this—

There is no one left. Forgive me my sins.

I love you, Annabelle DeChapl—