I press my face to the smooth bamboo of the cabana wall, staring through the gap toward the Olympic-sized swimming pool in Locke's backyard.

Why isn't he swimming?

He always swims on weekday mornings. It's his ritual.

Wake up. Down a cup of black coffee.

Drop his sleep boxers and tug a Speedo up those enormously thick thighs. Watching him through the windows of his house as he treks to the pool, still half sleepy, is usually the best part of my day. But he's not here. He's not even home. ...