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A few days after Stephen Clark’s funeral, which his estranged wife did not attend, I received a mid-morning phone call from Erin Becker.

“So someone decided to take justice into their own hands where Stephen Clark was concerned,” she said.

“In the absence of the law investigating him properly, perhaps.”

“He was investigated. He stuck to his story—he didn’t remember Eliza Michaud from his youth, even if he did fuck her—and there was no proof that he was lying. I don’t suppose there’s any point in asking for your thoughts on the manner of his death?”

“None whatsoever. Are you leveling an accusation?”

“When someone dies oddly in this state, you immediately spring to mind. Do you know anything about TTX?”

“Only what I’ve read in the papers.”

“It’s a natural toxin. It’s found in certain fish.”

“And in some snails, worms, and newts,” I said, “although I don’t think I’ve ever seen a newt.”

Becker tried to figure out if I was being funny or not. I wasn’t. I’d never seen a newt.

“Well,” she said, “we’re still trying to establish the origin of this particular dose, but it’s a distinctive way to kill someone. Poison is usually a woman’s weapon. So far, though, your former client is in the clear.”

“You don’t give up, do you?”

“No, Mr. Parker, I don’t. You might bear that in mind when I become attorney general.”

She ended the call. I stirred the milk into my coffee and carried it to my office. I sat at my desk, the window open to salt and sea. I thought of Sabine Drew, sitting alone in her home, listening for the dead.

“You keep fish?”

“Ever since I was a little girl. I’m quite the expert… It’s a private hobby.”

I took my time over the coffee, then picked up my car keys and drove into Portland. There was somewhere I had to be.