There was an uncle, he’d said, and a brother. Bartholomew and David. And there was a farm in Amherst, Massachusetts.

“You screw up this story for me,” Rob warned, “and I’ll haunt you forever.”

“You’ll have to stand in line, Rob.”

“What’s your interest?”

“Curiosity.”

As she climbed out of her Cadillac, she was greeted by the sounds of pigs and sheep. The air smelled fresh and clean. She just wanted to stand there, breathing.

There seemed to be no one about. Her heart pounding, Lillian walked over to a trailer at the exit of the driveway, where pumpkins, winter squash, gourds, Brussels sprouts and Indian corn were piled high. She chose a small pumpkin and slipped two quarters into the coffee can with the price list pasted on it.

This must have been a nice place to have grown up, she thought. And felt better for having come.

Up the slope rising behind the house, a stocky man came out of the barn. His shoulders were stooped slightly against the weight of two buckets, and he wore baggy jeans and a blue plaid flannel shirt. On his head was a Red Sox cap. His face was lost in the shadows, but Lillian watched him. She couldn’t breathe. Her fingers turned white as they clutched the pumpkin.

“You should hate him.”

“I can’t!”

“He betrayed us. He betrayed even you.”

“I don’t believe it. I won’t!”

“He’s a murderer and a traitor”

“No!”

A screen door banged. Startled, Lillian dropped the pumpkin. It didn’t break open, but she could feel the tears welling in her eyes, and she was suddenly furious with herself for having come. She stooped to pick up the pumpkin.

“Hi, there,” a friendly male voice said. “Can I help you with anything?”

Lillian rose, attempting to smile despite her embarrassment, fury and pain.

Then she froze. “Oh, God.”

“Huh? Something wrong?”

She reeled with the shock of seeing him. Again she dropped the pumpkin. This time he picked it up, handing it to her, his dark blue eyes filled with concern. “You okay? Hey—aren’t you Lillian Parker?”

“Yes, I—” She held the pumpkin close to her chest. For her excursion to the country, she had worn slacks and a cotton sweater, casual attire, but she felt so formal, so stiff, so afraid. She pushed absently at her windblown hair. “Yes, I am.”

His grin was endearingly lopsided. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine. I’m sorry. I... Hunger, I guess.”

“Want something to eat?”

“No, no, that’s all right.”

“You sure?”

She nodded. He was a good-looking young man. Very tall and sinewy, with dark hair, eyebrows, eyes. He wore tight jeans and a navy blue chamois shirt.

“I’m surprised you recognized me,” she said, hoping he would forget her ridiculous behavior. “I haven’t been on camera in quite some time.”

“Used to watch you every morning. My uncle’s a big fan of yours—want to meet him?”

“No! No, thank you, I have to be going.”