I CAN’T REMEMBER THE LAST time I slept in. Something always woke me up. Phone, alarm clock, assholes screaming on the dock. Always something. This morning it was Brooke. I couldn’t remember if I’d given her a key to the door or if I’d forgotten to lock it, but either way, she’d come aboard and nudged her stiletto into my calf at 8 a.m.

I rubbed my eyes until the fog cleared, and then I took her all in. Long, wavy red hair down to her lower back, freckles in just the right places, a white scoop-neck sweater dress, long legs that disappeared into a pair of black heels, and a necklace that dangled perfectly between her breasts. Every guy’s sexy nurse fantasy in the flesh.

“How in the hell do you push gurneys in those heels?” I said.

“I change into sneakers when I get to the hospital. Did you drop your phone overboard?”

“What?”

“Your phone. I left you three voice mails yesterday. If you’d return my calls, I wouldn’t have to stop by. I hate this place.”

I rubbed my eyes again. “That makes two of us,” I said.

“Then, why don’t you move?”

“It’s temporary.” I got out of bed and slipped on the slacks from yesterday.

Brooke walked through the cabin, looking around, searching for something. “Who lives on a boat anyway?”

“You always said boats were romantic.”

“Sailboats, Finn. I said sailboats were romantic. This place is creepy. And it’s kind of sad.”

She was right. Boats suck. This boat really sucked. Crockett and Tubbs convinced me it would be glamorous to live on a boat. But Cincinnati isn’t Miami, and the Ohio River isn’t Biscayne Bay. And it smells like shit.

Brooke ran a lean finger across the wall. “It’s not very homey,” she said. “No pictures or anything. Why is that? No pictures? I get that you wouldn’t have pictures of us, but what about that framed photo Becca gave you for your birthday? The World’s Best Dad one? You could at least put that up. Might make Becca feel more comfortable when she’s over here. Or that photo of you with your brother and your dad in Maine. I always liked that picture. The one with the three of you on the dock, holding that big fish.”

“Maybe I’ll call in a designer. Get the place made over,” I said.

She shrugged. “I mean it. You should do something. Add some personal stuff, some zing or something. It’s too sterile now. No personality.”

Brooke didn’t know the real reason for the lack of photos and personal items. Throw those on the wall and I invited trouble. Anyone could walk onto this boat and instantly determine who lived here. Not to mention identify me, my daughter, brother and father. It’s the same reason my name doesn’t appear in any utilities or DMV database. My utility bills go to the marina. Only my slip number appears on the invoice. Run the plates on my secondhand Navigator and an ambiguous LLC turns up. It’s the same company that appears on my credit card statement and checking account. My cell phone is prepaid, I use a P.O. box registered under another name, and I have an encrypted and anonymous e-mail address. I’m fucking invisible.

“Like I said, it’s temporary. No need to go to a lot of trouble decorating. I’ll save the effort for someplace more permanent.”

“Living on a boat just screams mid-life crisis,” she said, still looking around for something that wasn’t there.

“If I could afford a Porsche, I’d have a more proper mid-life crisis. Maybe Dr. Dickhead could buy me one.” I always wondered how long it would take a doctor to convince her that she was better off with him than with me. Then, I found out. Seven and a half years.

“Stop it.”

“Isn’t this where you tell me he’s really a nice guy and if I spent some time and got to know him, I’d really like him and we’d become good friends and maybe I’d forget the fact that he’s sticking his dick in my wife?”

“Ex-wife. And no, it’s probably best if you guys stay as far away from each other as possible.”

“Why’s that?” I poured a cup of day-old coffee and headed to the microwave.

“He doesn’t like you. Thinks you’re a bad influence on Becca. And he’s leery of people who live on boats.”

“It’s temporary.”

I grabbed a new shirt from the closet and slipped on my canvas shoes.

“Weren’t you going to tell me why you’re here?” I said.

“Becca, that’s why. Daryl and I want to get away for the weekend. We’re having…” she caught herself. “Just to get away. To recharge. Can you take Becca for the weekend? Next Friday?”

My schedule wasn’t as consistent as most peoples’ schedules. My hours were unpredictable when I worked as a legitimate PI, and now they’re downright impossible to gauge. It’s always tough to schedule time with your daughter in between tracking down blackmailers and riding shotgun while a guy in a mock turtleneck bats cleanup.

“Where are you going?” I said.

“Don’t know. It’s a surprise. He’s planning the whole thing.”

“A surprise? How do you know what to pack?”

“Yes, a surprise. I don’t ever remember you whisking me away for a weekend. Handling all the details. It’s romantic.”

“Sorry, I was too busy trying to earn a living to keep the lights on. But I guess Dr. Dickhead doesn’t have that problem.”

“I don’t want to have this conversation, Finn. Can you watch her or not?”

“If I said no, would you still go?”

“Yes. Daryl already made the reservations. Becca would just have to stay with someone else.”

The microwave buzzed and I grabbed the steaming cup.

“Of course I’ll watch her,” I said. “It’ll be fun. We’ll take the boat out. Cruise the river.”

“Do you know how to drive this thing?”

“Pilot, Brooke. You pilot a boat. You drive a car. And yes, I can.”

“Well, look at you. Pilot a boat. They teach you that when you bought it? Give you a little captain’s hat?”

“I’m renting. It’s temporary.”

“Okay then.” Brooke checked her watch. It looked new. Shiny. Probably a sorry-we’re-fighting gift. The real reason for the romantic getaway, I suspected. “Thanks for taking her for the weekend. I’ll drop her off Friday morning. It was fun catching up, Finn, but I start my shift in twenty minutes.”

I patted the mattress. “Wanna be late?”

“I don’t think Dr. Dickhead would approve. And from the looks of that mattress, it can’t support two people anyway. I don’t want to fall though the bottom of this shithole.” She smiled.

“It’s called a hull, honey.”

I watched her ass on the way out the door. It wasn’t as high and tight as it had been when we got married, but it still looked good enough to make me regret the split.