Page 119 of What Boys Learn

“I bet he knows it, too,” she says. Dimple still there. Cutesorry expression still there. “I’m Lenora,” she says, reaching out to shake.

I can’t refuse her hand. It’s soft. A little damp.

“And you are?”

“Dennen.”

“Like the singer?”

“His last name. My first name.”

“Your mom must have been a fan when you were born.”

I’m hoping Brett Dennen had a debut album before I was born. No idea. Dr. C told me I should say my name was Chase. I was about to say it and I couldn’t. I may not look like a Dennen but I definitely don’t look like a Chase.

Lenora loops her arm in mine. In a faux-fancy voice she says, “I wouldn’t mind a day sail, Dennen. If your uncle would let you have some company.”

When I look shocked, she pulls her arm away. Her face falls. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Of course I’m not scared,” I say, so wishing I could put her arm back through mine that I have to shove my hands in my pockets just to stop myself from doing something weird. “You were being nice. But I’m sure you have something to do.”

“I don’t. I’m staying on my dad’s sailboat, but he never leaves his slip. His plan for the next two days is to tinker with some electronics he’s switching out.” She lowers her voice to a flirtatious, accented stage whisper. “Winches. Windlasses. Yes, please.” She resumes her normal voice. “Do you even know the difference between a winch and a—”

I look up to see Dr. C standing only ten feet away from us. I didn’t hear the spigot turn off. “Weather’s not getting better than this! We gotta be back by two o’clock.”

I risk a sideways glance at Lenora. The blue piece of hair. The shiny lips. The dimple.

Walk away.

But she doesn’t. She steps behind and around me and then walks right over to Matt. She introduces herself. She tells him that I just invited her on the boat for a few hours of sailing. Then she looks back at me and winks.

44

ABBY

“Elisa was found washed up in Indiana Dunes National Park, on the shore of Lake Michigan, southeast of Chicago,” I said when Robert answered the door of his duplex around 7P.M.

This time, I hadn’t bothered to text or phone.

“Do I know this Elisa?” he asked.

“The wife.”

He stepped back as I pushed my way into the hallway, six-pack of beer in one hand and file folders in the other.

“But she went back to her maiden name, Agapov. And on formal documents her first name is Elizaveta. Which is why it took me two damn hours to find the obituary and news coverage. Vada washed up dead, too, a week later. That’s Curtis’s daughter, or was.”

He reached out to take the beer. But I didn’t plan to let go of the six-pack until I knew he was listening and believing.

“You remember that cruise she went on?” I asked. “The reason she didn’t show up at the hearing, supposedly? That was in July 2017. The wife and the daughter were found in August. Accidental drownings after a private watercraft overturned, officially. No wonder Elisa—or Elizaveta—didn’t make that hearing.”

“She was from Pleasant Park. Did they report it locally?”

I didn’t know if he was buying everything I’d discovered but I handed him the beer. It was getting too heavy anyway.

“Looks like she didn’t live on the North Shore long and by the time they were breaking up, she’d already gotten herself a permanent address in Chicago. It was in the city papers. Nothing local. Easy to miss, especially in a summer with so many Chicago shootings.”

Robert’s place was even messier than mine. Take-out napkins and an open bag of chocolate chip cookies on the coffee table. Basket of unfolded laundry on the couch.