Charles Bell. Mia couldn’t forget Martha Lowe’s resolute face, her utter and total belief that the reason that Asher was dead was because of something that had happened to Bix Bell. So where did it all fit in?

The unsure half answers were more likely to be true than if Ellen had given them something verbatim, so Mia almost trusted them. What she didn’t trust was Cash’s portrayal of the situation to Jimmy. Overheard information should be taken with a grain of salt at best, and this was even secondhand.

But Mia couldn’t deny there was a long line of questions stacking up for Cash Bishop.

The storm had moved in while Mia and Izzy had interviewed Ellen, and the hail had already started by the time they made it back to Mama’s house.

Mia had wanted to talk with Cash or Earl Bishop, but even running from the shed to the kitchen had been enough of a challenge that Mia knew she’d have bruises and welts where the brutal ice had pelted her arms, her cheeks.

And Earl’s dementia added a complexity to how they approached any questioning. They would have to be sensitive to how they handled him, and a surprise interrogation in the middle of a storm probably wasn’t the best option.

“Tell me what you thought of Lacey,” Mia said once they’d shaken off the snow that clung to their jackets and stripped down to long shirts and jeans.

The windows protested as the wind pummeled the glass panes, and the lights flickered, a quick blink that always made Mia hold her breath. They had backup generators that would kick in if the power went, but there was something terrifying about the vulnerability that came with the first plunge into darkness.

Izzy had been quiet most of the time they’d talked with Lacey, and then after Ellen’s house, too, so Mia didn’t have a read on what she was thinking.

Now Izzy settled into the kitchen chair, popping it back on two legs, her arms long enough to grab the counter and keep herself balanced. “Lacey,” Izzy said before humming low in her throat, her eyes on the ceiling. “That one’s an odd bird, isn’t she?”

An echo of Mia’s previous thoughts. A bird, poised for flight.

“She’s an artist.” Mia shrugged. It became a joke on St. Lucy’s. If an islander did something strange or outlandish, or broke the strict norms for acceptable behavior, someone would faux whisper, “Oh, they’re an artist now.”

“I think that term can be applied loosely,” Izzy said, dropping her gaze back to Mia. “Did you see her paintings?”

“They’ve sold for more than ten thousand a piece,” Mia said, amused at the way Izzy let the chair’s feet hit the ground.

“Get out.”