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“There’s something else,” Cooper said.

Grace’s hand tightened again.

“Adelaide Marchand’s late husband was Geoffrey Marchand. He worked in commercial insurance underwriting. He processed the Shoemacher fire insurance claim five years ago.”

Reno watched Grace. Her face didn’t change. Her hand didn’t move. But her breathing slowed and became very intentional as if she was stopping herself from doing something else.

“Geoffrey Marchand died of a heart attack three years ago,” Cooper continued, “and we have absolutely no reason at this time to think his widow is involved in anything related to the fire. The fact that her husband touched paper that touched the Shoemacher claim does not, by itself, mean a thing. Insurance is a small world in this part of the country. People’s paths cross.”

“But you’re telling me.”

“I’m telling you because I’d rather you hear it from me than have it show up in print or circulate around town as a rumor. I’d like your permission to look at the claim paperwork your insurance agent has on file from that summer. With your written consent, it would go faster.”

“Of course, I’ll consent,” she said quietly.

“I’ll bring the form over tomorrow.”

She nodded.

Cooper looked at her for a long moment, and Reno saw him weigh his next sentence against the kind of woman she was and choose his words carefully.

“Grace,” he said, “I want you to hear something else. I went to Arizona because I had a question about the original fire investigation. I’m not in a position to share what I found. I will be soon, and when I am, I’d like to do it sitting down with you at a time of your choosing with whoever you want in the room. I’m giving you a heads-up now, so when I do come asking, you’re not surprised. I’d rather you have a few days to brace.”

Grace’s eyes filled with tears. She did not blink.

“Thank you, Cooper.”

With a nod, he stood up and put on his sheriff’s deputy hat. He picked up his coffee, drank what was left of it in one long swallow and set the cup down. He nodded to Reno and murmured that he would let himself out and they should stay put.

His truck started in the drive. The headlights washed across the backyard and were gone.

Grace sat very still, and Reno didn’t reach for her. He’d learned, over the past week, that she did her bracing on her own and didn’t want anyone rushing in to help.

After a minute, she said quietly, “He thinks the fire wasn’t an accident.”

He couldn’t argue with her.

“Reno, if I find out my husband was murdered, I’m going to need to sit on this porch for a while.”

“Of course.”

“I may need somebody to look after Lily for that while.”

“I’ll take care of her for as long as you need.”

She nodded and looked at the lake. The sun had full set, and the first stars were coming out in the patches of sky visible through the tree canopy overhead. He watched her silhouette, and she didn’t cry. She didn’t move a muscle.

After a long minute she reached out blindly and put her hand on his forearm. She didn’t take his hand.

He didn’t move either.

They sat that way until Lily came padding down the hall in her pajamas with two seals under one arm and the coloring book under the other, asking if it was story-time.

Reno and Grace sat on either side of her in bed, reading to her together. They took separate parts in a story about two turtles deciding to visit a zoo.

He figured they both needed a dose of a child’s innocence tonight. Lily fell asleep in the middle of the second book with one hand curled in Grace’s shirt and a stuffed seal pressed against her cheek.

Reno stood up carefully. Grace eased away from her, kissed her on the forehead, and pulled the comforter up to her chin. The night-light cast its pale gold over the room, and Cinnabun was once again on the floor, under the window exactly where Lily put him every night.