Why was he in Janes Island State Park? Neal had asked him to come but wouldn't say why. He could always tell when something was wrong, and Mr. Neal Hartmann was in trouble. And the most likely source of that trouble was Eric Girard, Neal's partner, and all round, smarmy asshole. But what particular malfeasance had Eric been perpetrating? And could it have been enough to make someone think that planting a bomb on his yacht and incinerating him was just a dandy idea? Or were the explosion and fire an accident? Sergeant King of the Natural Resources Police wouldn't say. King wouldn't tell him anything, but he did keep asking about his relationship with Eric. So Eric had fired him from Girard-Hartmann Accounting. So they might have had a spirited screaming match when that went down. So? So here he was sitting on a dock, face fire-burnt, hair singed, and legs barnacle slashed. He had been about to step on board Eric's yacht when it had exploded; okay, he'd been twenty feet away, but he'd still been knocked off the dock and into the tepid, blue-green water of Daugherty Creek. And nobody could find Layla, Eric's wife, who had been on the yacht. And now Neal was telling him that he should go home, that nothing had been going on. He should go home. He was going to get in his rental car and ride north like dire wolves were chomping at his ass. That was what he was going to do. But Neal was his friend. And he was curious.