He wanted a drink. He pulled open his lower drawer, where he stashed small bottles of rum that he picked up at the island factory. Katrina, his assistant, would periodically throw those bottles away. A churchgoing woman, she didn’t approve of him drinking on the job, but she wouldn’t dare say that to him directly. So he’d get the little bottles and they’d be there for a while, then one day they’d be gone and he knew she had tossed them. He never confronted her. It was their little game.

This time, when he opened the lower drawer, something else caught his eye. A large tan envelope with the precinct’s stamp on the upper left-hand corner. Except the envelope was sealed.

He dialed Katrina, who sounded surprised to hear from him.

“Where were you all day?” she asked. “People were asking for you.”

“Yeah,” he said, “I had to take care of something. Hey. Did you put a sealed envelope in my desk?”

“What?”

“In my drawer. You know. The lower drawer?”

“Oh, yeah. That was last week, from that guy. Remember? That day you were stuck in Marguerita Bay?”

“Rom?”

“I don’t know his name. He never told me. He asked for an envelope while he was waiting, so I gave him one. You said it was OK, remember? And then, like I told you, when I came back out to find him, he was gone. But he left the envelope on the steps, so I put it in your desk.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I did.” She paused. “I thought I did. Oh, Jarty. There’s so much going on. I’m sorry if I forg—”

But LeFleur had already hung up. He ripped open the envelope to find a stack of folded pages. The edges were frayed and the handwriting was familiar. LeFleur knew exactly where they had come from.

He started reading so fast he didn’t even feel himself drop back into his chair.

Sea

My Dear Annabelle.

One final time, I beg your forgiveness. It’s been months since I wrote you anything. I am still at sea, but no longer at war with it. I may live. I may die. It doesn’t matter. A shroud has been lifted. I can say all I need to say now.

I’d be quite a sight to you, my love. There is much less of me. My arms are scrawny. My thighs are thin chops. Some of my teeth are loose. The clothes I used to wear are just shreds of fabric, chewed away by the pervasive salt. The only thing there is more of is my beard, which is growing unfettered toward my collarbone.