He did not look at me while he worked, his eyes focused on the blue marker lines he had drawn across the paper.
“The rescue boys put their boats in at the old mill trace at eight this morning,” he said, his voice a low, raspy drawl.
I rubbed my gold wedding band, sliding it up to my knuckle and back down again.
“She knows the river,” I said, speaking slowly, letting the silence fill the space between my words. “She has been swimming in the quarry since she was nine.”
He traced the blue marker along the winding line of the Blackwood River, stopping where the contour lines gathered close together.
“The current was unusually slow yesterday,” he said, squinting at the blue line. “Under three knots near the bend.”
I looked at the blue ink on his map, which did not look like water at all, just a dry vein on paper.
“At three knots, a body does not clear the limestone shelf by the county line,” Harris said.
He set the pen down, and it rolled until it hit the edge of the glass paperweight.
