REPORTER: Well, as you may recall, Jim, our own footage from that night showed that, due to a rainstorm, most of the guests were inside a small ballroom on the second level, listening to the band Fashion X, when the explosion occurred. Apparently, based on images from the probe, many of them died in that ballroom, and their remains can be seen and counted. Of course the Galaxy’s actual manifests were all lost, and helicopters taking passengers back and forth make a definitive calculation impossible. But a Sextant spokesperson did tell us, “The number of identified remains is close to all the people we believe were on board.”

ANCHOR: So it’s unlikely anyone escaped or survived?

REPORTER: It appears that way.

Epilogue

Land

LeFleur and Dobby sat inside the jeep, which was parked outside the small terminal of Montserrat’s airport. A blue-and-white prop jet was landing on the single runway.

“I guess that’s it,” Dobby said, reaching for the door handle.

“Wait,” LeFleur said. “I think you should have this.”

He popped open the glove compartment and took out the plastic bag. It contained the original notebook, with the added pages folded inside it. He handed it to Dobby.

“You’re sure?” Dobby said.

“He was your family.”

Dobby examined the bag. He narrowed his gaze. “This can’t get me in trouble, can it?”

“It doesn’t exist,” LeFleur said. “Anyhow, you were never on the ship. And it wasn’t a mine that sank it. Really, it was nobody’s fault.”

“An act of God, huh?”

“I guess.”

Dobby scratched his head. “Benji was really messed up. But he was still like my brother. I miss him badly.” He paused. “How do you think he died?”

“Hard to say,” LeFleur replied. “A storm? Another shark attack? Maybe, in the end, he just gave up. It’s hard to survive that long on your own.”

Dobby opened the door. “You know, you never did take me to where you found that raft.”

“It’s just a beach,” LeFleur said. “Not far from here. Marguerita Bay.”

“Maybe next visit,” Dobby joked.

“Yeah,” LeFleur said. He studied Dobby’s face, the crow’s-feet by his eyes, the stringy hair, the pale complexion. He was dressed once again in his black jeans and boots, ready to return to his life.

“Listen, I apologize for what I put you through early on,” LeFleur said. “I just thought . . . well, you know.”

Dobby nodded slowly. “We’re both mourning someone we lost, Inspector.”

“Jarty.”

“Jarty,” Dobby repeated, smiling. He got out of the car, took a step, then turned back. “Speaking of names, I think it’s Rum Rosh.”

“What?”

“Rum Rosh. It’s in Psalms, the original Hebrew. It means ‘God lifted my head.’ I learned it as a kid. A priest taught me. The Irish and their churches, you know.”

LeFleur stared at him. “What are you saying?”