He led her into their spacious yet simply designed home. Like many homes in rural Texas, the rooms were large and the ceilings tall, but the Millses had focused on making their home comfortable and inviting, with many places to sit, built-in bookshelves in virtually every room, and picture windows looking out at wide-open spaces. A picturesque barn stood in the distance, and just from the ring and the setup she suspected there were a dozen horses, now in stalls for the night. A bunkhouse was barely visible beyond the barn. To manage a property of this size they probably had several full-time ranch hands.

“You’ll have to excuse Judith,” Grover said. “She’s resting. These two months have weighed heavily on her, and then everything that happened today.” He paused, then said, “I didn’t tell you over the phone, and perhaps I shouldn’t tell you now. But Judith and Victoria had an argument the day before our daughter was killed. Judith hasn’t been able to get past the fact that the last word she said was unkind.”

“Victoria loved you both. You provided a warm and safe home and your children have all done well.”

“Hmm.” He led her to his home office, a comfortable room down the hall decorated in dark wood and a western theme. He walked to a bar built in the wall and said, “What would you like? I have a variety of Scotch, and I remembered you like wine—I have both red and white, good varieties, Judith tells me. I’m not much of a wine drinker.”

“Red, thank you.”

He prepared the drinks in silence, and Max let him relax. While the victim paid the ultimate price with their life, the survivors—the loved ones surrounding the victim—also suffered. And much of their pain was caused by guilt. Survivor’s guilt, guilt over what they did or didn’t do in the life of their loved one. Guilt that they couldn’t say good-bye. Violent death made all that worse, and Max had far more patience with those who grieved than she did with anyone else.

Grover would talk to her in his own time.

He brought her the wine and she sipped. “Judith is right. Rich, full-bodied, a hint of oak and cranberry. Very nice.”

He held up his double Scotch. “Salute,” he said, and took a deep drink. He sat next to her, put his glass on a coaster. “I called the detective in charge of the investigation and she wasn’t much help about what happened at the courthouse, but it’s clear they still believe that Stan is guilty. She didn’t come out and say it, but they’re not going to look further into Victoria’s murder. She wants to come out here and talk to me about the shooting. As if I’d killed him out of vengeance.”