“Might as well close up.” Laura joins me at the register, lays a ten-dollar bill on the counter, and slides it over to me. “That’s all I can afford to pay you.”

“I can’t take your money.” I slide it back to her. “I didn’t earn it.”

“You’ve manned the register most of the afternoon.”

“I spent most of the afternoon drinking sweet coffee and eating your cookies.”

“Kate—”

“No.”

She softens. “I wish the customers would come back. I love this shop. The people who used to come in.” She lowers her voice. “Just between us, I even like the tourists.”

I chuckle. “I won’t tell.”

“I’m going to miss this place when I walk out for the last time.” She drops a short stack of bills into a cash bag and zips it.

I wipe the counter, trying to decide how best to broach the subject of Rebecca. “I like your friends.”

“They’re like sisters to me,” she replies. “Some days I don’t know what I’d do without them.”

“Terrible about Rebecca’s finger,” I say easily. “My grossdaddi lost two in the corn thrasher when I was a kid. Never slowed him down, though.”

Laura slides cookies from the plate into a container, concentrating a little too hard on the task. “It happens.”

We work in silence for several minutes. “Ada and Rebecca were pretty tough on Bishop Schrock,” I say, trying to land on a subject that will keep her talking.

“They’ve got their reasons.”

I glance at her, trying to decipher the meaning, but her face gives me nothing. “Did something happen between them and the bishop?”

“Not Ada,” she tells me. “Rebecca.”

In my mind’s eye I see her bandaged hand; I recall the reactions of the other women, and I know there’s something there. Something important. I hope Laura trusts me enough to tell me what it is.

“What happened?” I ask.

Without replying, she walks to the front door and throws the deadbolt. Glancing through the plate glass window at the darkened street beyond, she lowers the blinds. Once they’re closed tightly, she lifts a slat with her finger and peers out at the street. Finally, she leaves the window and ushers me to a table at the rear of the shop.

“What I’m about to tell you…” she says in a low voice. “Probably best if you don’t repeat it.”

I offer a concerned, sympathetic look. “Of course.”

“I’m a firm believer that there are some things best left unsaid. Some things most people are better off not knowing. I don’t want to burden you, but I think you’re a strong woman and I’d like your perspective.” She lets out a long breath. “Honestly, I’ve been wanting to get this off my chest for some time.”

Reaching across the table, I squeeze her hand. “What is it, Laura?”