"What?"
"The Michaelises are not guilty."
A bar stood by their path. He led her inside, to a booth. The drab routine of checking Corinna's age seemed to help calm her. She asked for straight Irish whisky, he took beer.
Only then did she challenge him: "How do you know?"
"It's a long story," he said, "and frankly, I'm not certain how much of it you should hear. So suppose you begin by telling me why you think they did it."
"The police—"
"Uh-huh. They paid a little more attention to your ideas than you thought. They checked and found Gene had dropped out of sight over the weekend. He and his father refused to cooperate, doubtless being very surly about it, so now they're in the calaboose. But what could their motive have been in the first place?"
Her fingers twisted together. "Oh, all that business years ago, when their boat rammed Dad's."
"What more? It's something to do with you, isn't it?"
"Yes. Nothing disgraceful, I suppose. But ugly. A million people sniggering over this new revelation about our family—isn't there going to be end to it, ever?"