Ashley grabbed another afghan and sat on the floor in front of the couch. She was shaking. The fire in the wood stove had died out. It felt cold. “Barky didn’t say where he was going?”

“Uh-uh.”

“But fishing...”

“Ash, has Barky ever gone fishing off his own land?”

“No,” she said unnecessarily. “It’s the piece in You.”

“Of course it’s the piece in You! Frigging millions of people are going to see those stupid jewels. What do we do if someone recognizes them?”

Ashley thought of Sarah Balaton. “Give them back.”

“Oh, sure. Just like that.”

“I should have left them in Switzerland.”

“You should have kept your face out of that stupid magazine.”

“I know.”

David hissed, his energy suddenly gone. “Hell, Ash, I’m sorry. You know what Barky says.” He gave a tight smile. “The egg is broken.”

She hugged the afghan to her. It smelled of her uncle’s stale pipe and smoke from the wood stove. “David, maybe we should call the police.”

“And tell them what? That Barky’s gone fishing and some goon who’s probably long gone beat me up? Big deal. Ash, we can’t lay out the whole story for them. They’ll put us in the loony bin. For God’s sake, Barky may be a jewel thief! Our dad may have been a jewel thief—our own mother.”

Ashley nodded reluctantly. “I suppose you’re right. The man who nailed you—what did he look like?”

“Big bastard—couple of inches shorter than me, but built like a bull, blond, a pro... Ash?”

She had shut her eyes. “David, I’m sorry. I tried to keep you and Barky out of this mess—”

“Forget it. It’s our mess, too. What now? Any ideas?”

She looked at him and tried to smile. “I guess we could pick apples. Barky would like that.”

Ashley dumped a bucket of sour-smelling slop into the trough and watched the grunting, snorting pigs shove one another to get to it. How like people, she thought, and set down the bucket. She checked the water. It was late afternoon, still sunny and gorgeous, but there was a sharpness to the breeze that foreshadowed the coming of winter. David was confined to the living room couch but had drunk a cup of chicken broth. There was no sign of Barky. She had looked everywhere, calling across the fields, hearing nothing but her own echo and the angry cry of the birds.

Barky was gone. Fishing, she thought.

Except his fishing pole was hanging in the shed, covered with cobwebs, and his truck was standing in the driveway, as always.

She tried to sweat off her frustrations with work, but as she trudged around the farm, she noticed how empty it seemed, how different, without Barky stumping around in his Red Sox cap and his dirty old sneakers.

“Dammit!”

She kicked the slop bucket. It somersaulted down the hill toward the house and landed upside down.

Then she noticed the tall man standing next to the trailer. He was examining a pumpkin. She should be looking for Barky and instead she was selling pumpkins.