Caitlin sat at the keys and built upon the story she’d told the woman over the phone. “I made a bet with a man that I had more talent than I may actually possess, and I’m not about to lose for lack of effort.”

“You have a date tonight?”

“Yep, someone I’ve met recently who is single, has a great job, and has a piano in his living room that he cannot play.”

Isabelle flashed those kind, understanding eyes. “Well, in one hour I think we can get you to the point where you can play and sing without stops.”

Caitlin found middle C, tried her first attempt at greatness. She remembered how to read the notation and what the finger placement guide numbers meant, but faked some bad choices. Isabelle stopped her, explained the perceived mistakes, and Caitlin tried again. Five more passes, and she could get all the way through without stopping.

“You’re doing great, Caitlin. Ready to try singing?”

Caitlin took the opportunity for a break. “Not yet. I think my need to pee might be making me better than I am.”

She excused herself to the bathroom, returned to find Isabelle coming out of the kitchen with a cup of tea.

Caitlin stopped in front of Detective Shepherd’s photo. “Is this your husband?”

“Yes, that’s my Chris.”

“He’s with the BPD? My date’s with a cop. Maybe they know each other.”

“They might have,” Isabelle said and sipped her tea. “My husband died two years ago.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

Isabelle picked up a Kodachrome-colored image of a college-aged couple in formal wear from the late sixties and handed Caitlin the frame. “Here we are the year we met. He’d just pinned me.”

Caitlin noticed a trio of matching Greek letters over the door of a familiar local building.

“Were you a Tri Delt at IU?”

Isabelle nodded, walked back toward the piano, and placed her hand over her heart. “Let us steadfastly love one another.”

Caitlin returned the frame to its home and went back to the piano.

Isabelle watched her. “Out of curiosity, have you ever dated a police officer?”

“No, but I like when they wear the uniforms.”

The woman’s once-welcoming eyes now looked tired and distant. “It’s a strange kind of life, even in a town as small as this. They’ll never tell you everything they do, and you’ll never be sure they’ll come home at the end of the day.”

“Oh God, was your husband killed on the job?”

Isabelle set her tea aside. “My husband shot himself.”

“I’m so sorry.” Caitlin paused and gave the woman a chance to stop her, either by words or body language, but saw nothing. “Was he sick or something?”