Where would she even go? At this point, it might be easier to drive her rental car cross-country than turn around and face Greenwood, Mary, or Lakshmi.

She shook her head, stretched, then walked over to the back patio, plopped down on a deck chair, and filled her lungs with country air. Since the nearest residence was an old farmhouse at the other end of the cornfield, maybe three quarters of a mile away, there’d be no distractions until Branford’s return. Caitlin closed her eyes and went into her tunnel.

If Lakshmi hadn’t drugged Chapman, Caitlin had nothing new to bring to the story. With access to the farm, the cops would find Chapman’s body, which meant Caitlin would have to read it in the paper like every other jerk. What to do?

She looked up at the waist-high, bright-green rows of corn, watched the tassels wave in the light breeze.

There was the other story. The real story. She’d driven past the spot. She could drive back, walk the area—or she could go back to the house, pack her stuff, and leave town.

For the second time in the nineteen days she’d been in Indiana, her dad’s singsong voice came back to her.

“Could don’t mean should, but would won’t mean did—unless you let it. Otherwise, you’ll never forget it.”

She took another look at the cornfield and nodded.

It’s just a building. Troy Woods won’t even be there.

She’d drive over to the old limestone mill, see what there was to see, then let her emotions tell her whether to go back to Mary’s place or drive aimlessly across the country.

“There you are.”

Branford’s return brought her out of her head. He walked over with a plastic shopping bag in hand. “I thought you ran away.”

Caitlin stood. “Just clearing my head.”

“Good, I come bearing gifts.” He pulled three business-card-sized coupons out of the bag, each marked “Free Pizza by Owner.”

“May you never go hungry,” he said.

She pocketed the cards. “Or thin. I thank you from the bottom of my stomach.”

“The second item isn’t really a gift,” he said, reaching back into his bag. The familiar cover of Fallen Angels appeared. “Told you I was a fan.”

Caitlin reached for the hardcover book. “Have a pen? For once I don’t mind signing a copy.”

He leaned in next to her. “No, that’s the surprise, Caitlin. Open the cover.”

She opened the book, saw her own signature in blood red—the same color pen she’d used at every signing. “I don’t remember seeing you at the bookstore.”