“Everything okay?” Maybe there’d been a death in the Covey family. Her mom? One of her brothers? No, if that were the case, she’d have called to tell me, and then she’d have gone straight home; she wouldn’t be here, asleep in my spare room.

Mrs. Vincent smiled. “She’s fine. But you and me need to talk.”

I stepped farther in, confident now no one was going to jump out at me. I kicked my shoes off, wiggled my toes. “About?”

“You’ve been sneaking around here like Mata Hari, using the back door when the front door works just fine.” She waggled a finger at me. “Caught you this morning, didn’t I?” She folded plump arms across her chest. “I know what you’re doing. We’re about to talk about that.”

No, it wasn’t a setup or an ambush, it was an intervention, and I was hemmed in tight, like a jumpy steer squeezed into a rodeo pen. I took a step backward, eyeing the hall, the back door at the end of it. I reasoned I could likely hit that door long before the old lady could mount a decent pursuit.

She huffed. “Don’t even think about it. Everybody’s worried—Benjamin, Charles, Barbara. They started calling me when they couldn’t get you, which might explain why she’s here and not there. Follow me into the kitchen. I’ll heat up those beans for you. I brought corn bread, too. Hope you’re hungry. Even if you aren’t, you’re going to eat.”

She took off on spongy heels, her crepe soles nearly silent on the hardwood floor as she padded down the hall, heading back toward the kitchen. I followed dutifully. There was no getting away.

“I know what I’m doing,” I told her.

She scoffed. “Here’s what I know. You’re working yourself into the ground. I can’t remember the last time I saw you for more than a quick hello. I decided you needed the time to get things settled—that when you were settled, you’d be back same as you were.” She turned to face me. “Well, it’s been long enough. You think trouble goes where you do, but, child, trouble’s out there whether it comes riding in on your coattails or not. I know. I’ve seen it all and done about half of it.” She grabbed the Pyrex dish with her homemade beans in it out of the fridge and slipped it into the microwave. “Sit,” she said, pointing to one of the barstools pulled up to the center island. “You need people. You’ve got people. That’s it, plain and simple.” Her eyes met mine. “Act like it.”

She moved around my kitchen like it was hers, pulling down a bowl, grabbing a spoon.

“You don’t know what’s at stake here, what could happen. I—”