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I accepted her friendship and a message appeared in my inbox.
    Hi Rosie! So glad we’re “friends!” OK, well, the scene at the house after the funeral was positively dreadful. Corinne was on tranquilizers and Bill drank most of the Ketel One. He really leaned on me and I was so glad I was there. Guess what he told me? He’s the one who told the police he didn’t want an autopsy or investigation. He didn’t say why but can you stand it? So dishy!
    Sent from a mobile unit
    I reread Rhonda’s message and clicked my fingernails on the table. Why would a father not want to know how his daughter died? And how on earth did he get the police to close the investigation? There were so many unanswered questions.
    I stared out the window. It was a black, moonless night. Somewhere in that darkness the Cardigan was racing by. No one rescued Megan from that cold, gray water. And with the recent events in my life, I had an idea how it must feel to drown. Struggling for breath, clawing to get your head above water.
    I looked back at my computer screen and updated my status.
    Rosalie Hart
    Is wondering how a young college student, armed with athleticism, gorgeous looks, and a promising future, came to be facedown in the chilly currents of the Cardigan River.

 
    F OUR
    Introduction to Memoir Writing class was held on Thursday evenings in a drafty room with a high, stamped metal ceiling in the oldest building on the John Adams College campus. I arrived fifteen minutes early for class and purposely sat in the third and last row. This was our second of eight classes. The first night I had been surprised to learn we were supposed to have already written five pages of a memoir. And because it was such a small class, four students and one very young teacher, tonight we were each going to read what we had written aloud and receive feedback from our classmates.
    Glenn Breckinridge was next to arrive. A little over seventy, he was dressed in a crisp, blue oxford shirt, professionally creased khaki pants, and a bow tie. I had been drawn to him immediately. Not only because he had such a kind, gentle demeanor, but because we were in similar circumstances. He also recently moved to Cardigan and, like me, was looking for ways to fill his time. I hoped Glenn was as desperate for friendship as me.
    â€œHello, Rosalie.” The newspaper tucked under his arm was open to a crossword he was working on in pen. He slid into the seat and turned sideways to face me. “How did the writing assignment go?”
    â€œNot so well, it turns out. Apparently you’re supposed to have done something significant in order to write a memoir. Who knew?”
    â€œI’m sure you’ll have something compelling to say,” Glenn said in his deep, sonorous voice.
    â€œHow about you? Any luck?”
    â€œI already had one hundred pages. I just tidied the first few up a bit. I’ve intended to write a business memoir since I retired from IBM. I’m shooting for an airport read, the kind of book a businessperson can pick up and finish in one trip.” Glenn nudged his wire-rimmed glasses higher up his nose. “Perhaps my plans are a bit grandiose.”
    â€œI would buy it,” I said. “Can I preorder?”
    â€œHa ha. It’s nice to have your confidence. So? What are you going to write about?”
    â€œNo clue. Do you know I’ve never even kept a journal?” I leaned in. “I might start now, though. Did I tell you I discovered a dead body in the river?”
    â€œThat was your place? Good heavens, I read about it in the paper. How dreadful for you.”
    â€œIt was pretty horrific. She was a lovely young woman. Her death was such a tragedy. And all I can think about is my Annie away at college. So, well…” I hesitated.
    â€œWhat?” he said, his tone encouraging me to continue.
    â€œI think her death being ruled an accidental drowning is suspicious. There are some