Sumner glanced at my full hands. “Two cups?”

“One's for Anarchy.” I sounded defensive, as if I expected her to call me out on my addiction.

“I hoped to chat with your husband last night. Hold on—” she bent, rested her hands on her knees, and stretched her back. “But the snake—”

“I know, I know.” Hopping onto the table at a dinner party had not been my finest moment. “I heard things got interesting after we left.”

“Gin and politics don’t mix.” She straightened and glanced again at my full hands. “I thought Anarchy was going fishing with Graham. Haven’t they left?”

“I don’t know what they worked out, but when I went to get coffee, Graham hadn’t knocked on our door.” I hoped he hadn’t knocked in my absence. I had a fantasy that involved drinking coffee in bed.

Summer frowned. “It’s not like Graham to dally. Maybe he drank more than I thought.”

“If they’ve left for the lake, you’re welcome to Anarchy’s coffee.” The offer was reluctant. And generous.

“No, thank you. I’m a tea drinker.”

I had nothing against tea. It just wasn’t coffee. "This is me." I nodded toward our cabin and slowed my steps.

Sumner walked on. “I’ll see you at breakfast.”

Breakfast. “Misty is making cinnamon rolls. From scratch.”

“Sounds del—” Sumner tripped and fell.

With my hands full of coffee, I couldn’t help her. “Are you all right?”

She made no move to get up off the gravel. “I’m not sure.”

“Hold on.” I set the coffee cups on the cabin’s front porch, hurried to Sumner’s side, crouched, and grasped her elbow. “Can you stand?”

Her forehead creased. “I think so.”

With me lifting, we got her back on her feet. She swayed.

“Where are you hurt?”

“I’m not sure. I feel shaky. My ankle?”

“Come on. Let’s get you to your cabin, then I’ll get Buffy.” Our friend had worked as a nurse before she married.

I supported Sumner to the three steps that led to her cabin’s front porch. Rather than lead her up the stairs, I climbed them and knocked on the door.

Graham didn’t answer.

“Graham?”

No answer.

I looked back at Sumner, who waited at the bottom of the stairs.

Her lips were a thin line, and she looked pale. “He should be up.”

“Graham?” Louder this time.

Sumner swayed, then steadied herself with the short handrail. “Maybe he went fishing.”

“You need to sit down.” Her ankle might be sprained. She needed elevation and ice. “Graham, I’m coming in.” I tried the handle, and the door swung open.

Over the past year, I’d seen terrible things. Clowns with knives. Heads in ovens. Bodies beneath cars. Anarchy shot. But this? I stared. Horrified. Then I squeezed my eyes shut.

“Ellison, what’s wrong?”