Suddenly, the door swung open and a man walked in. LeFleur knew immediately he wasn’t local. The way he dressed, black jeans and boots. The way he looked around. They made brief eye contact. The man sat by the window. LeFleur hoped he wasn’t another journalist trying to blend in with the locals so he could wander over and ask “innocent” questions.

LeFleur sipped his beer. Twice he caught the man looking at him. That was enough. He laid a few bills on the table and walked out, catching a good look at the stranger as he did. Fair complexion. Long stringy hair, slightly gray. A lined face that suggested years of hard living.

LeFleur’s house was six blocks away. He knew Patrice would be waiting. He walked slowly, breathing in the warm night air. His phone sounded, a text message. He pulled it from his pocket to read:

Any luck finding that guy? —Len

LeFleur exhaled deeply. As he walked, he thought he heard a second set of footsteps. He stopped. He turned. The street was empty. He continued walking. There it was again. He spun around. Nobody.

He was two blocks from home now, so he quickened his pace. Again, he heard the footsteps, but resisted looking. Let whoever it was get closer first, so he could identify them. As he came around the corner, his yellow house was just ahead. LeFleur felt his muscles tighten. He was bracing for a confrontation when he heard a man’s voice say, “Excuse me?”

He turned. It was the guy from the rum shop.

“Excuse me? . . . Inspector, right?”

He had a slight accent that LeFleur couldn’t place.

“Listen,” LeFleur said, “I told the other reporters everything I know. If you want more information—”

“I’m not a reporter.”

LeFleur looked the man up and down. He was panting, as if the six-block walk had tired him out.

“I knew someone. On the Galaxy. He was my cousin.”

The man exhaled deeply.

“My name is Dobby.”

Nine

Sea

My dear Annabelle. I am so sorry. Have I frightened you?

I see my last page. It was mostly scribble. I don’t even remember when I wrote those words. Weeks ago, perhaps. The mornings and nights roll drearily into one another now. Given all that has happened, this is the first time I’ve felt the clearness of mind to write you.