Dean stood on the wet gravel holding a heavy metal flashlight.

He aimed the yellow beam at the grass between our boots so it wouldn’t shine in our eyes.

“You scared me half to death,” Dean said, brushing imaginary dust off his coat sleeves.

“What in the world are you two doing out here at nine thirty on a Sunday night?”

“Looking for Daniel’s old tackle,” I said.

My voice sounded thin against the wind coming off the water.

“There’s nothing in this shed but dry rot and old fishing line, Clara,” Dean said, stepping up onto the low wooden threshold.