She climbed back aboard with the mask and started down the driveway. Was Oppo suggesting that Ronald Rickreiner’s murder was still an open case? That his son and wife had taken revenge on suspects in the same way that Kim Maybee had died? Had other suspects been poisoned and lived? Was Oppo implying this by telling her that twin brothers named Golly, in debt to Ronald Rickreiner but long gone from the Bad Axe, still owned property around Liberty Hill? And the father and daughter living there now were named Goodgolly?

What the hell was that about?

“Call Leroy Fanta,” she told her phone a fourth time as she parked the van in front of the house next to her brown-on-tan sheriff’s Charger. No point in leaving another message. She hid the pregnancy test inside the Charger’s glove box, safe there until tomorrow morning.

“Yay!” Dylan cheered as she came in through the mudroom. Noisy box fans blew air across the kitchen. “Milkshakes for breakfast!”

Shit. Instead of ice cream, she had brought back Harley’s orange mask.

“Um… ice cream is all sold out.”

“You were gone for an hour and a half,” Harley observed with a head-tilt and a squint. Her van-cooled body had begun to sweat. A brand-new baseball trophy stood on the table.

“Don’t tell me you were MVP.”

He shrugged. “The ball keeps hitting my bat.” He put his hand out for the mask. “Where’d you find that?”

“In the newspaper tube.”

“What? Why?”

“You tell me. Ice cream is sold out everywhere. So instead I’ll make chocolate-chip waffles.”

“Yay! Yay! Chocolate-chip waffles!”

Harley said, “Hm. OK. You do that. While I feed the animals.”

He stepped close and whispered under the fan noise as he kissed her on the ear, “You’re acting weird, hon. I haven’t seen my mask since last winter. Obviously the boys were playing. Don’t forget I’m on your side. And remember we need to talk about the 4-H trip tomorrow.”

When the waffles were on the table, with link sausages, butter and syrup, a pitcher of cold milk, a bowl of blueberries, and coffee for Harley and herself—everybody with their bare feet in the fan breeze under the table—she began a family discussion of Taylor’s situation, starting with the fact that he had not yet composed his notes of apology for pushing Barry Rickreiner’s stepson and wife into the pool yesterday.

“I understand,” she said, “that some people might seem like enemies because they don’t want me to be sheriff anymore.”

“It might seem like they’re attacking your mommy,” Harley clarified. “But this is, um… normal. That’s just how it’s done. It’s called politics. We’re just not used to it around here.”

Dylan stared wide-eyed back and forth between them. Taylor glared down at his waffle from close range.