An hour later, Tomasetti and I are in my Explorer eastbound on State Route 11 traveling toward Roaring Springs. Unbeknownst to me, he’d rented a car in Wooster, made the nine-hour trip in seven, and returned the rental car in Plattsburgh, so we could drive my vehicle back to Painters Mill.

I’m thankful because I didn’t get much sleep last night; I’ve been running on caffeine and adrenaline most of the day. Now that those two things are waning, I’m starting to relax. The case is over, I can leave Roaring Springs, and I’m ridiculously happy Tomasetti is here to drive me home.

I must have dozed because when I open my eyes we’re idling through downtown Roaring Springs. It’s nearly four P.M. and the downtown area is, as usual, deserted.

Tomasetti glances over at me and takes my hand. “I figured you’d sleep.”

I sit up straighter, give his hand a squeeze. “Didn’t want to miss seeing this place in the rearview mirror.”

It’s a true statement. But the heart is a fickle thing. When I see the sign for The Calico Country Store, an emotion I can’t quite identify jumps inside me. I find myself thinking of Laura Hershberger and her homey little shop and for the first time it occurs to me that not all of my time spent here was unpleasant.

I glance over at Tomasetti. “Are you game for a cup of coffee?”

He knows it’s not coffee I’m craving, but he doesn’t ask and angles the Explorer into a parking space.

“This is the shop where I met the Amish women,” I tell him.

“Ah … the quilt shop where you passed off someone else’s work as your own.”

“Thanks for reminding me of that.”

But we grin at each other as we disembark.

Snow flutters down from a pale sky as we cross the sidewalk. Tomasetti opens the door for me. The cowbell jingles cheerily as we walk inside. The aromas of hazelnut coffee and cinnamon rolls welcome us. The shop is quiet; a single customer picks through the jams and jellies at the far wall. The Mennonite girl at the cash register looks up from her romance novel and smiles.

An uncomfortable pang sounds in my chest. While I don’t necessarily want to be here, I know this is the last time I’ll walk through that door. The last time I’ll see these women I’ve come to care about. The last time I’ll come so close to being the woman I might’ve been had I remained Amish. While I’m happy with who I am, there’s an odd sense of loss in there somewhere.