In the farmhouse’s kitchen, Grier sat across from her father at a table made of boards taken from an old barn. Between them, there were two small white plates marked up with smudges of chocolate and dessert forks down for a rest at steep angles.

Over the course of the meal, they had spoken of nothing important, just everyday things about work and his garden and her ongoing cases in the penal system. The conversation was so normal . . . perhaps deceptively so, but she’d take what they had under the fake-it-till-you-make-it rule.

“Another piece?” she asked, nodding over at the cake stand on the counter.

“No, thank you.” Her father dabbed the corners of his mouth with his napkin. “I shouldn’t have had the first.”

“You look as if you’ve lost weight. I think you should—”

“I lied about Daniel to keep you safe,” he blurted, as if the pressure of holding back had built to an unsustainable level.

She blinked a couple of times. Then reached out and played with her fork, drawing little Xs and Os through the frosting she hadn’t eaten, her stomach flip-flopping around the dinner she’d just had.

“I believe you,” she said eventually. “It hurts like hell, though. It’s like he’s just died again.”

“I’m so sorry. I can’t say that enough.”

Her eyes lifted up to his. “It’s going to be okay, though. I just need some time. You and I . . . we’re all we’ve got left, you know?”

“I know. And that’s my fault—”

From out of nowhere light blazed in through the windows, illuminating the alcove and the two of them in a burst of brightness.

Chairs screeched as she and her father burst up and dove for cover behind the solid wall of the den.

Outside on the front lawn, the motion-activated security lights had come on and a man was walking over the cropped grass toward the house. Behind him, in the shadows, a car that she didn’t recognize was parked on the gravel drive.

Whoever it was must have come in without headlights on. And if it were Jim or Isaac or those two men, someone would have called.

“Take this,” her father hissed, pressing something heavy and metal into her hand.

A gun.

She accepted the weapon without hesitation and followed him to the front door—which was where their unnounced “guest” appeared to be heading. Where was the sense in that, though? You snuck down the drive without your lights on, but then marched right up to the—

“Oh, thank God,” her father muttered.

Grier relaxed as well as she recognized who it was. In the security lights, Jim Heron’s big body and hard face were as clear as day, and the fact that he’d ghosted down the lane made sense.