Inside, the walls were a different color, the furniture was different. There was a rebirth here, there was hope. But Fortin was still struggling with his ghosts as they passed through the kitchen where he had found Lyle’s suicide note.

Jansen led him through the living room where his girls were watching Mary Poppins on TV while eating cookies and drinking milk.

They gave Fortin white-mustached smiles.

“The thieves never took the television. I don’t know why,” Jansen pointed to a desk. “But they took our laptop. Thank God I had everything backed up online.”

Papers, files, statements were scattered on the desk. A small steel file cabinet next to it had been rifled.

“They were likely looking for cash and credit cards,” Jansen said. “We didn’t leave anything like that around.”

Fortin made more notes and took more pictures.

“In here,” Jansen said.

Fortin hesitated.

Jansen had gone into the main bedroom, the bedroom where Fortin had found Trudy Dolan on the blood-drenched bed, half of her head gone, splattered against the wall.

We’ll talk to the bank. We’ll work it out. We’ll be fine.

“In here,” Jansen repeated. “Most of what they took was in here.”

Fortin followed him and saw Yvette Jansen sitting on the bed, searching through small cardboard boxes that were in larger ornate wooden and porcelain boxes and crying softly.

“They took everything,” Yvette said, “my great-grandmother’s rings, my grandmother’s collection, my mother’s necklaces, my bracelets, rings, and earrings, everything.”

Fortin took stock of the room. Nothing indicated the blood stains on the wall. The Jansens had put up new wallpaper, a dresser stood where the Dolans’ bed had been. Nothing indicated the horror that had played out in this home.

“You’re insured for the contents?” Fortin asked.

“Yes, but it’s not the same,” Yvette said. “They’re all family heirlooms, they’re all irreplaceable.”

Fortin nodded.

Then they’d returned to the kitchen where he’d adjusted his clipboard and slid out standard forms that he’d passed to Peter and Yvette to complete, when suddenly there was a loud crash.

Fortin’s hand flew to his holster.

Instantly, he’d turned to the source of the noise: the youngest Jansen girl had dropped her milk glass while returning to the kitchen and it smashed to pieces on the floor.

Paralyzed with fear she stared wide-eyed at Fortin, her attention shooting to his hand.

He’d drawn his gun part way from his holster before freezing.

“Hey!” Peter Jansen shouted at Fortin. “What’re you doing? She just broke a glass!”

Fortin kept his hand on the grip of his gun and didn’t move. His heart was thundering, his pulse roaring in his ears. Peter moved in front of Fortin to shield his daughter; Yvette had moved to comfort her.

All eyes were on Fortin, who slid his weapon back into his holster.