Images floated in my head. The victim in the basement. A sock dangling over singed and stiffened toes. A nameplate on a tiny casket.

A happy-face sticker.

"Brennan."

"What?"

"Good morning, star shine Earth says "Hel o.""

"What?"

"You're home."

I'd been sound asleep.

"Thanks. Talk to you on Monday."

I stumbled from the car and up the stairs of my building. A light snow was topping the neighborhood like frosting on a sticky bun. Where did so much snow come from?

The grocery situation had not improved, so I ate soda crackers spread with peanut butter and washed them down with clam chowder. I found an old box of Turtles in the pantry, dark chocolate, my favorite. They were stale and hard, but I was not in a position to be choosy.

The bath was al I'd hoped it would be. Afterward, I decided to light a fire. I was final y warm, but felt very tired and very alone. The chocolate had been some comfort, but I needed more.

I missed my daughter. Katy's school year was divided into quarters, my university was on a semester system, so our spring breaks did not coincide. Even Birdie had stayed south this trip. He hated air travel and voiced that opinion loudly through each flight. Since I'd be in Quebec less than two weeks this time, I'd decided to spare both the cat and the airline.

As I held the match to the starter log I considered fire. Homo erectus first tamed it. For almost a mil ion years we'd been using it to hunt, cook, keep warm, and light our way. That had been my last lecture before break. I thought of my students in North Carolina. While I'd been searching for Elisabeth Nicolet, they'd been taking their midterm exam. The little blue books would arrive here tomorrow by overnight delivery, while the students split for the beaches.

I turned off the lamp and watched the flames lick and twist among the logs. Shadows danced around the room. I could smel pine and hear moisture hiss and pop as it boiled to the surface. That's why fire has such appeal. It involves so many senses.

I synapsed back to childhood Christmases and summer camps. Such a dicey blessing, fire. It could give solace, rekindle gentle memories.

But it could also kil . I did' not want to think about St-Jovite anymore tonight.

I watched snow gather on the windowsil . My students would be planning their first beach day by now. While I was fighting frost-bite, they were preparing for sunburn. I didn't want to think about that, either.

I considered Elisabeth Nicolet. She'd been a recluse. "Femme contemplative," the plaque had said. But she hadn't done any contemplating for over a century. What if we had the wrong casket?

Something else I didn't want to think about. At least for tonight, Elisabeth and I had little in common.