Finally, the school bus approaches. The wipers have cleared two eyebrows in the dirty front windshield, behind which sits the old reliable matron driver. Am I imagining that she stares at me suspiciously too?
That’s a great idea, I say to Alison. Sybil will be thrilled.
VII
My mother is standing at the front door in agitation, waiting for me. She wedges the storm door open.
Juliet, she whispers. The police are here.
Two bodies in dark clothes stand in the sunlit living room behind her. I take my time wiping my feet.
What for? I whisper back.
To talk to you, she says. They won’t say more. Where’s Sybil?
At Alison’s house. Stay with me.
We walk into the living room. A broad-shouldered man stands with his hands in his pockets, relaxed and looking out into the backyard like he’s thinking of buying it. A young woman with a severe ponytail stands on the other side of the room. She smiles when I enter.
I’m Detective Duran, she says, offering her hand.
Durahn, she pronounces it. She wears no makeup, and no jewelry. She appears scrubbed clean, leaving nothing to criticize. She introduces the other officer as Detective Ross. He reaches over the back of the couch to shake my hand. The woman asks if I have some time to talk. I tell her I do.
My mother and I settle side by side on the loveseat. If my mother is not allowed to be there, the pair do not push the point. Detective Duran lifts her hands, a kind of fatalistic shrug.
You must be in a very difficult place, Duran says. I am truly sorry for your loss.
Thank you, I say.
Sorry for your loss, echoes Ross, still at the back window.
I always wish I could do more to ease people’s pain, Duran says. But we are officers of the law. Our job is very narrow. To uphold the law. No matter what else is happening.
Of course, I say. So this isn’t about Michael?
It’s not exactly about Michael. It’s about someone he knew. We’re wondering if you can tell us anything about Harry Borawski.
I blink. I tilt my head, like a bird, to the side.
The man who sold us the boat? I ask.
Yes.
Why? What does he want?
He’s missing. We don’t know how long, since he had no wife or kids to keep track of him. But he had a regular monthly lunch with some old salts at the local Denny’s and he never once in his life missed it. So, when he didn’t show this month, they were very insistent. We searched his place, nothing.
That’s strange, I say.
We took a look at his emails, Duran says. In the past several months, he sent dozens of emails—
Dozens upon dozens, adds Ross.
To your husband.
Unanswered emails, clarifies Ross.
By the sound of them, Mr. Borawski probably wrote quite a few of them in a state of disorientation, Duran says, raising her eyebrows. So we can understand why your husband didn’t write back. But it’s curious. As you know, as you probably know, they were technically co-owners of your boat. Your boat, called the…Duran shuffles through her papers.
The Juliet, I say.
Both of them look up.
The boat was named Juliet, like me. Michael named the boat after me.
Oh, Detective Duran says, her hand to her heart. That’s so sweet.
It’s a nice name, agrees Ross. Sometimes boat names are really weird. Like, Now I’m Poor or Never Again. Like bad jokes. Why do people do that?
They both look at me cheerfully. I’m unsure what to say.
My mother clears her throat. So what exactly would you like from my daughter? she asks them.
Detective Duran nods at her. Good point, Mom, she says. Then, to me: Honestly, we’re just trying to find the guy. We’re thinking maybe he’s not even around here. Maybe he went down to Central America to hang out