Chapter 8: Gig Harbor

I asked Kendra at breakfast, over the toast, with the cat winding around my ankles.

"The lock log says you were in the house on Tuesdays and Thursdays," I said. "Before we moved in. For hours."

She set down her cup carefully.

"Colby asked me to measure the windows for curtains," she said. "He wanted it to be a surprise for you. He said you'd cry."

"I have never ordered curtains."

"I know, honey." Her eyes filled. "He never did either. I'm so sorry. I thought it was sweet, and then he forgot."

It was a good answer, and it had an answer for everything.

I thanked her for telling me and put the log in my bag.

On Saturday I drove to Gig Harbor.

I had not planned it. I got on the bridge to get out of the house, and the road took me to the harbor where Colby and I had our first date.

The fish shack had a hand-lettered sign on the door now: Closed for the Season.

I stood in the gravel lot where I had stood a week before, and I waited to feel something.

I felt hungry, and I felt nothing about Colby at all.

Down the shore, past the marina, a long tin shed stood at the edge of a boatyard.

The door was open. A man in a canvas jacket stood inside with a plane in his hands, shaving a curl of wood off a long plank.

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