The most direct route to Jack’s place took me past Patti’s, and I stopped the car outside regardless, craning my neck. All the tables were taken, and while the line of weather-braving, hungry brunchers huddled under the ruby awning was only two rows deep, there was no sign of Jack, or the truck, anywhere.

I set off again, turned left on Marina Road to his apartment. Fat raindrops splattered against my windshield, making me go slower despite my impulses ordering me to put my foot down. Judging by the empty streets, most of the town’s few thousand souls had decided to wait out the storm in the comfort of their homes. That was Brookmount—sensible and quiet. Even at the height of summer, most tourists wouldn’t venture down this way, preferring the fun-filled attractions Ocean City had to offer. The mentality suited Jack and me fine. We’d found our separate ways here because we’d needed a change and had tacitly agreed not to push each other for too many details. In my experience, people always had a couple of ghosts in their past, skeletons in closets best nailed shut.

I focused on the road, slowed down some more when I passed what had now officially become Jack’s prior workplace. Maybe he hadn’t been able to finish the job last night after all, and had returned this morning, but my theory didn’t add up. First, he’d have called me, or picked up their phone. Second, his truck wasn’t parked in the front or at the back. Third, all the lights were off, and—although I didn’t need a fourth—the red-and-white Open sign had been turned to Closed.

The fearful, panicking voice in my head, the one I’d attempted yet failed to silence, whispered he’d gone to the beach last night. For a swim. I pushed the thought away, trying to shut it up, but it ignored my efforts, bounding around my mind like a bunny on speed. “He’s fine,” I said out loud, startling myself. The words did nothing to placate my trembling fingers, or stop the hairs on the back of my neck from standing sentry and sending freezing shivers down my spine.

A few minutes later I arrived at Jack’s place, the last house on Bay Court, where he rented the apartment above a double garage. Sam owned the house on the other side of the large driveway and was a veteran pharmaceuticals sales rep, often gone weeks at a time. The testament to his successful career—a bright yellow Porsche—was the only vehicle parked outside. I got out of my pathetic excuse for a car, held my jacket over my head in a pointless attempt to avoid the steady downpour and sprinted up the wooden steps to Jack’s front door, where I rattled the handle. Locked. I banged on the glass.

“Jack? Are you home?”