“Are you going to answer her?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

“Every message she sends proves how scared she is of what I know.”

By half past eleven, the fog had burned off the cove, leaving a crisp blue line along the horizon.

Theo stood in the studio’s little kitchen, laying two thick slices of sourdough in an iron skillet on the counter.

“Remember the harbor pavilion project from senior year?” he asked, putting a small dish of sea salt between us.

“You spent three days straight reworking the roof frame because the ocean wind calculations were off by five degrees.”