Chapter 7: The Yard

Clive's boat yard was a fenced lot in Red Hook with one hull on stands and a cat asleep on a tarp.

I went there that night because he had said, on the phone, "Come anytime. I'll be sanding."

He was.

He put the sander down when he saw me and pulled off his goggles.

"I don't have a lot of chairs," he said, and dragged an overturned bucket over for me.

"That's fine."

"I have grilled cheese, though. It's the only thing I can cook that doesn't need a manual."

I laughed, which I hadn't done in three days, and he looked pleased for about one second before he hid it.

He made the sandwiches on a hot plate in the corner of the shed.

I told him about the voicemail.

He listened with his arms on his knees.

"The family plan runs on Brendan's login," he said. "I set that up for him two years ago, when he couldn't figure out how to add you."

"So either Gianna was in his account that night, or he moved that pin himself."

"Or both," Clive said.

I looked at him.

"He wouldn't," Clive said, and then I watched him hear himself. "I used to say he wouldn't."

"What did he do every March, Clive? You've known him twelve years."

He took a long time answering.

"Early March," he said. "Every year since I've known him, he takes the Sunday closest to the ninth, and he turns his phone off."

"I asked him once if I could drive him. He said no in a way I didn't push."

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