LeFleur felt as if a character from a book had come to life. He knew things about this man that the man himself had not yet revealed. He had to be patient, draw him out.

“What did you do after that?”

“Jarty,” Patrice said, tapping his hand. “Maybe let the man eat?”

“Sorry.”

“Nah, it’s all right,” Dobby said, chewing on a roll. “I did a lot of things. Odd jobs. Traveled around. Wound up in the concert business.”

“You’re a musician?” Patrice said.

“I wish.” Dobby smiled. “I carry the equipment. Set it up. Break it down. A roadie, for want of a better word.”

“How fun,” Patrice said. “You must meet a lot of famous people.”

“Sometimes, yeah. Famous people don’t do much for me.”

“What about the army?” LeFleur said. “You ever serve?”

Dobby’s eyes narrowed. “Now why would you ask me that?”

“Yes, Jarty,” Patrice added. “Why would you?”

LeFleur felt a flush. “Dunno,” he mumbled. “Just curious.”

Dobby leaned back and ran a hand through his long, stringy hair. Then Patrice said, “Is there a Mrs. Dobby somewhere?” and the conversation shifted. LeFleur silently cursed himself. He’d have to be more careful. If Dobby suspected that LeFleur knew what he’d done, he could disappear from the island before LeFleur could make a case. On the other hand, he couldn’t just arrest the man without evidence. Evidence meant the notebook. The notebook meant explaining why he’d taken it. His thoughts marched around this triangle so intensely he lost the flow of the conversation, until he heard his wife say, “. . . our daughter, Lilly.”

LeFleur blinked hard.

“She was four,” Patrice said. She placed her hand on her husband’s.

“Yeah,” he mumbled.

“I’m truly sorry for you both,” Dobby said. “There’s no words for that.”

He shook his head as if lamenting a common enemy.

“The damn sea,” he said.

* * *

That night, after dropping Dobby at the guesthouse, LeFleur parked across the street and killed his engine. Part of him did not want to take his eyes off of this man.

His phone buzzed. A text. Patrice.

We need coffee. Pick some up.

LeFleur bit his lip. He texted her back.

Having a drink with Dobby. Home in a bit.

He pressed send and sighed. He hated lying to Patrice. He hated the chasm that was now between them. The latest chasm. Deep down, he’d also resented that his wife had seemingly made peace with Lilly’s death while he was still at war with it. She believed it was God’s will. Part of his plan. She kept a Bible in the kitchen and read from it often. When she did, LeFleur felt as if a door had been locked that he couldn’t get past. He had been a believer earlier in his life, and the day Lilly was born, he did feel blessed by something larger than all of them.