followed Rafe down the cracked sidewalk, house after
anonymous house. Some had small rowboats tied to the weath-
ered wooden docks. Here and there, thickets of palm trees cast
shadows on the glassy water. We stopped at a bridge wrapped
with tiny Christmas lights and watched a couple in a red boat
float by. The woman’s laughter skipped along the surface of
the water, like stones. It was absurdly pastoral.
Venice, California, was established around 1900. It was go-
ing to be a simulacrum of the original, with classical arcades,
Moorish accents, and twenty miles of waterways. But these
were mostly paved over by the end of the twenties to make
room for cars. For decades afterward, the few remaining canals
languished, swampy and mosquito infested. An urban-renewal
104
project in the eighties made them desirable again, and so ex-
pensive only the very rich could afford to live nearby.
Rafe was very rich. He could have whatever he wanted.
“They tried to kill all the ducks a few years back,” he said,
breaking the silence. “Muscovy ducks. They had some awful
disease, and they were afraid it would spread to the wild flocks.
A bunch of people from the neighborhood gathered them up
in the middle of the night and took them to secret locations to
save their lives.”
“Is there a reason you’re telling me this now?” I asked.
“People do strange things in the name of love.”
“Not good enough,” I snapped.
“Dude,” Rafe said, waving at a tall man in a Rolling Stones
T-shirt crossing the next bridge over. “Sam the man. How you
doin’? We going to see you Saturday?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” The man walked on, then turned
around. “Give my best to Will.”
“My neighbor.” Rafe stuck his hands in his pockets and
looked out at the water. “Guy used to have a rowboat, but it
was stolen last year.”
“Stop it, Rafe,” I ordered. “I’m not leaving until you talk
to me.”
“What is it that you think you know?”
“Aren’t you going to mike me?” I demanded.
“I deserved that. I said I’d explain everything. But not
here.”
“Yes, here.” I noticed some gang graffiti carved onto the
bridge’s wooden post. Nobody’s immune.
“Back at my house,” he said. “C’mon.”
That’s when it occurred to me to be scared. “I’m not going
105
with you to your house.” I wanted to stay exactly where I was,
where everybody could see us.
“Have it your way,” Rafe said, shrugging. “What do I care
anymore?”
“Stop with the melodrama.”
Rafe ran his fingers through his blond hair. It was still wet
from the shower. “I got a letter from Maren around three
weeks ago.”
“Go on.”
“Hadn’t heard from her in years. It was short. She said she
was in big fucking trouble.”
“Why should you care?” I demanded. “You just said you
hadn’t heard from her in years.”
“We had a past. We had a bond.”
Another bond.
“She said she wasn’t going to see me again,” he went on,
“that she needed to disappear. And that I should prepare my-
self for anything. That I shouldn’t be sad. I shouldn’t worry.
I should be happy.” He lowered his voice. “She was saying good-
bye. I thought it was a suicide note. I told Will. He thought so,
too. But we didn’t know where she was, how to find her, how
to stop her.”
“Did you show it to Captain Donaldson?”
He nodded. “Him and Smarinsky.”
“And they agreed?”
He nodded again.
“But it wasn’t a suicide note,” I said. “Because that wasn’t
Maren we saw, was it?”
He was silent.
“Answer me, Rafe. That wasn’t Maren, was it?”
106
He was barely audible. “No.”
I exploded. “Do you realize what you’ve done? That you’ve
committed a crime? That you’ve lied to everyone—to the po-
lice, for god’s sake—and that you’ve implicated me? How dare
you?” Just then, something occurred to me. “Oh, my god.
Does Will know?”
He shook his head.
“Will
anonymous house. Some had small rowboats tied to the weath-
ered wooden docks. Here and there, thickets of palm trees cast
shadows on the glassy water. We stopped at a bridge wrapped
with tiny Christmas lights and watched a couple in a red boat
float by. The woman’s laughter skipped along the surface of
the water, like stones. It was absurdly pastoral.
Venice, California, was established around 1900. It was go-
ing to be a simulacrum of the original, with classical arcades,
Moorish accents, and twenty miles of waterways. But these
were mostly paved over by the end of the twenties to make
room for cars. For decades afterward, the few remaining canals
languished, swampy and mosquito infested. An urban-renewal
104
project in the eighties made them desirable again, and so ex-
pensive only the very rich could afford to live nearby.
Rafe was very rich. He could have whatever he wanted.
“They tried to kill all the ducks a few years back,” he said,
breaking the silence. “Muscovy ducks. They had some awful
disease, and they were afraid it would spread to the wild flocks.
A bunch of people from the neighborhood gathered them up
in the middle of the night and took them to secret locations to
save their lives.”
“Is there a reason you’re telling me this now?” I asked.
“People do strange things in the name of love.”
“Not good enough,” I snapped.
“Dude,” Rafe said, waving at a tall man in a Rolling Stones
T-shirt crossing the next bridge over. “Sam the man. How you
doin’? We going to see you Saturday?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” The man walked on, then turned
around. “Give my best to Will.”
“My neighbor.” Rafe stuck his hands in his pockets and
looked out at the water. “Guy used to have a rowboat, but it
was stolen last year.”
“Stop it, Rafe,” I ordered. “I’m not leaving until you talk
to me.”
“What is it that you think you know?”
“Aren’t you going to mike me?” I demanded.
“I deserved that. I said I’d explain everything. But not
here.”
“Yes, here.” I noticed some gang graffiti carved onto the
bridge’s wooden post. Nobody’s immune.
“Back at my house,” he said. “C’mon.”
That’s when it occurred to me to be scared. “I’m not going
105
with you to your house.” I wanted to stay exactly where I was,
where everybody could see us.
“Have it your way,” Rafe said, shrugging. “What do I care
anymore?”
“Stop with the melodrama.”
Rafe ran his fingers through his blond hair. It was still wet
from the shower. “I got a letter from Maren around three
weeks ago.”
“Go on.”
“Hadn’t heard from her in years. It was short. She said she
was in big fucking trouble.”
“Why should you care?” I demanded. “You just said you
hadn’t heard from her in years.”
“We had a past. We had a bond.”
Another bond.
“She said she wasn’t going to see me again,” he went on,
“that she needed to disappear. And that I should prepare my-
self for anything. That I shouldn’t be sad. I shouldn’t worry.
I should be happy.” He lowered his voice. “She was saying good-
bye. I thought it was a suicide note. I told Will. He thought so,
too. But we didn’t know where she was, how to find her, how
to stop her.”
“Did you show it to Captain Donaldson?”
He nodded. “Him and Smarinsky.”
“And they agreed?”
He nodded again.
“But it wasn’t a suicide note,” I said. “Because that wasn’t
Maren we saw, was it?”
He was silent.
“Answer me, Rafe. That wasn’t Maren, was it?”
106
He was barely audible. “No.”
I exploded. “Do you realize what you’ve done? That you’ve
committed a crime? That you’ve lied to everyone—to the po-
lice, for god’s sake—and that you’ve implicated me? How dare
you?” Just then, something occurred to me. “Oh, my god.
Does Will know?”
He shook his head.
“Will
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