“Nothing, it’s fine,” he’d said, before apologizing and leaning over to kiss me. “I hate showy knob-heads. Next time remind me to call the idiot a spunk bubble.” At that point I’d collapsed in a fit of giggles, and we’d walked to the shop arm-in-arm, the mini confrontation already forgotten.

Looking at Stevens now, I decided neither of the incidents were worth mentioning. They were trivial. Irrelevant. What would I gain by bringing them up when I knew they meant nothing? “He didn’t have any problems.”

“Was he depressed?” Heron said softly. “About losing his job?”

The inference became clear as their heads tilted to one side, sympathetic expressions at the ready. “He didn’t kill himself,” I said, and as they exchanged an almost imperceptible glance, I wondered if I’d put the idea into their heads by somehow misrepresenting who Jack was. “He wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t.”

“We have to consider all possibilities,” Heron said.

“Not that one,” I fired off, straightening my back. “Because you’re wrong.”

As she opened her mouth to respond, her phone rang. She answered it swiftly, asked, “When? Where?” and finished with a curt “Uh-huh, fine,” before hanging up and turning to me. “They found some clothes farther down the beach. It may be nothing, but they’re sending—” Her phone beeped, and she held it up, screen pointed at me.

I let out a sharp gasp. There it was. The dark green American Eagle shirt I’d given Jack for Christmas, the one I’d chosen because it complemented his amber eyes, and which was so soft, I couldn’t resist hugging him whenever he wore it. It was my favorite as much as his.

“They found this hoodie.” Heron brought up another photo, and my hands flew to my mouth as I closed my eyes.

“Ask them if it has a hole in the left pocket,” I whispered. “Half an inch long.”

Heron fired off a text and I stayed silent as we waited for the reply, but when Stevens’s phone rang, I jumped. As he moved to the kitchen to take the call, I struggled to comprehend what was happening. First, I refused to accept Jack may have harmed himself, and I didn’t believe Heron’s tale of his identity being fake, either. She’d made a mistake, or there was a glitch in the system. Someone, somewhere had made a clerical error, mixed up Jack’s records with somebody else’s. Jack Smith was a common name, and there had to be a thousand possible things that could have happened to create a mishap like this, and the ensuing confusion.