“I love it.” He starts to say something else, but I press two fingers against his mouth. “For God’s sake, Tomasetti, if you say or do one more nice thing, I’m going to start blathering like an idiot.”

“I guess there’s a first time for everything.”

“I’d rather it not be that.”

“Okay.” He wraps his fingers around my wrist and lowers my hand from his lips. Then his mouth is against mine and my back is against the wall. He leans into me and kisses me without finesse. A hundred thoughts scatter and fly, and I forget about everything except this moment between us and the promise of a future that, for the first time in my life, might just be within reach.

*   *   *

There are times when a case sinks so deeply into my psyche that I mull it even in my sleep. By the time morning rolls around, I’m convinced of two things: Jeramy Kline’s untimely death was no accident, and his wife, Abigail, is responsible.

It’s implausible to believe an Amish woman would mistake pokeweed for dandelion greens; the two plants are noticeably different in appearance and taste. If Abigail intended to include the pokeweed, she would have known it must be “thrice” boiled in order to cook out the toxins. I believe she purposefully poisoned her husband by serving up a toxic amount of underboiled pokeweed mixed in with a batch of dandelion greens.

The problem, of course, is proving it. In order to do that, I need motive, which I believe is inexorably linked to the as-yet unsolved mystery of Leroy Nolt.

Tomasetti had an early meeting with the suits in Richfield and left the house at a little before six. He didn’t wake me, which has become the norm since I found out about my pregnancy. It’s a little after seven when I pad to the kitchen, still wearing my sweatpants and T-shirt. Outside, a summer storm has moved in. Thunder rattles the decorative plates hanging on the wall. The curtains above the sink billow in a breeze laden with humidity.

I’m pouring my first cup of coffee when I find the note tucked beneath the coffeemaker. Let’s go fishing this weekend.

I laugh in the silence of the kitchen. It’s the sound of a happy woman, and I pause to remind myself that that woman is me. That I laugh when I’m alone in the privacy of my own kitchen. And I will take to work with me today the knowledge that I am loved.

Pulling a pen from the drawer, I write: Last to show baits the hook.