He left Carly in her house and went back outside. He walked the perimeter, making notes. The driveway needed to be dug up and repaved, and for the most part, the windows were sound. He moved brush away from the foundation and ran his fingers along the creases, looking for weak spots. Still, he decided that adding a layer of concrete to the exposed portions would be helpful. While out there, he stopped and admired the view. He hadn’t had a chance to take his family’s boat out yet this season—with the divorce and his company failing, he hadn’t felt like it. But standing there, seeing the barrage of colorful sails of the sailboats, made him miss being out on the water. It had taken years after Austin died for Bowie to set sail again. It was something they had loved doing together. His best friend gone, his life changed forever.

After Austin passed, Bowie had found himself questioning life. What was the purpose of it? Why was he given the one he had? He spent most of his nights drunk, and during the day he longed for the person who shunned him, and his best friend. His life was in turmoil. He hated himself for what he had done, and he couldn’t even atone for his actions. Water under the bridge—that’s what Carly had said to him. Would she have said the same thing if she knew that while her son was dying, the unthinkable was going on? Probably not. In fact, Bowie was certain that if Carly knew the truth, she would’ve never called him to do this job.

Fifteen years ago, Bowie and Graham had put their lives on hold searching for Austin. Every morning they would take a boat out, trailing close to the shore, looking for his body. They went as far north as Canada, as west as they could before the temperatures dropped, and south until the water warmed, knowing there wouldn’t be anything left if Austin had gone this way. The men wanted, more than anything, to bring Austin home, giving Carly closure. They weren’t the only ones looking. Fishing crews put their jobs on hold to look for Austin. Every day, the townspeople would wait down by the docks as the boats came into port, hoping for an answer.

Bowie focused on his clipboard as he rounded the house. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a black SUV barreling toward him. He jumped out of the way only to lose his footing after the vehicle almost sideswiped him. “Fucking out-of-towners,” he grumbled as he brushed his dirty hands against his pants. Determined to give the driver a piece of his mind, he went toward the car. The driver’s door was open, and a foot dangled out. He gripped the side of the door and peered into the cab. Bent over the console, the driver was rummaging through something, ignoring him and the fact that she could’ve killed him. “The inn’s not open. You’ll need to head back into town. You’ll find a place on Colonial, three blocks up from Third.”

The driver froze.

“Hey, are you okay?” Panic set in. Bowie wondered if the driver needed medical attention, maybe had suffered a heart attack, which could be why she hadn’t seen him. Maybe she was slumped over and not ignoring him. He reached for her arm and pulled her upright. He moved closer, leaning in as far as he could to get a look at the woman. His heart stopped. His lungs ceased to inhale or exhale. He didn’t know for how long, but he was sure every vital organ in his body shut down as he took in the woman. He knew her . . . well.

And he hated her.

She’d ruined his life.