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Regent’s Park boat dock with the speed of the demons. Thankfully, I caught myself before I got too near and was able to slow my pace to a disinterested stroll. Just because I had some sort of news didn’t at all mean that I would be joining Sherlock’s game.
    Or tell him about it.
    â€œYou’re here,” he announced as I walked up.
    â€œI promised.”
    â€œYes, well, promises, in my experience, mean very little. Still, well done.”
    Honestly, he was the most infuriating, condescending, ridiculous—
    â€œShall we?” He waved toward the little boathouse, ignorant of my internal ranting.
    He seemed twitchy as we walked. He kept taking turns staring at the path ahead and down at my hand. This left me feeling more than a little self-conscious about my bloody hand of all things. I kept wondering what he was seeing, what scar or smudge or chip in my polish would give him insight into my heritage, personality, or personal grooming habits.
    About the time I expected him to declare that I had eaten salmon last Wednesday and would become an ardent Catholic in my seventies, I decided that this “observe and judge” quirk was his most irritating quality. I sighed and was just about to ask him what on earth was so damned fascinating about my hand when he reached across the gap between us and took it in his. He instantly calmed, and, despite my surprise, I felt my own inner tension soothe as well. I even smiled a bit. There was something wretchedly endearing about Sherlock’s manner. Even when he was irritating.
    He, of course, had no idea what to do with my hand once he held it, and quickly returned to his twitchy ways. Luckily, I had only a few steps left to tolerate his grasping and swinginguntil we reached the window outside the café, where boats could be rented. All the while, I was determined not to acknowledge the familiarity I felt when we were together. I sometimes wasn’t sure if I was compensating for his awkwardness, or if this strange boy actually made me feel . . . whatever it was that makes one feel at home with a stranger. Like I’d known him forever.
    As payback for this inner treachery, I made him struggle for almost a full minute with trying to remove his ID and money from his wallet one-handed before letting go of his hand, a thought that clearly hadn’t occurred to him.
    Our boat was a blue fiberglass thing with a light wood floor, two blue benches, and orange oars. Number 28.
    â€œAny thoughts on our case?” he asked, once we were out on the water.
    I, in fact, had many, but I covered with, “You first.”
    â€œHow shall we start our little game?”
    â€œI’m not sure I want to play yet.”
    His eyes practically lit up with the news. “Oh, well. I can’t blame you for being intimidated, having so much less experience with these things.”
    â€œOh? Solved a lot of crimes, have you?”
    That was evidently the exact right thing to say. I hated how much he was enjoying this. “I meant with deductive reasoning. The crime is incidental to the puzzle.”
    â€œOur schoolmate’s father is dead, but, yes—incidental.”
    He shrugged off my sarcasm. “Still, I’ll understand if—”
    I knew what he was doing. He couldn’t have been moreobvious, and still I interrupted his smug ridiculousness with, “You worry about you. I’ll worry about me.”
    I watched as his lip twitched, but he managed to suppress whatever expression might have escaped. “I thought you weren’t going to play.”
    â€œI’m not.”
    â€œThen why are you here?”
    â€œI thought you should know there’s to be a memorial. Tomorrow at two. I’m invited.”
    He couldn’t have known it was a lie, no matter how high his brows raised after I’d said it.
    â€œYou may tag along if you’d like.”
    I was pretty sure that his next expression was