Tim’s humor helped to calm me down. We were both chuckling when I noticed Philip Norton walking toward us.

“It’s almost noon,” Norton said. “Everyone’s getting hungry. Would it be okay if I excused myself to make the lunch? It’s chicken soup with fennel and farro, and homemade buns. Jade’s favorite.”

Audibly, embarrassingly, my own stomach rumbled. I had hours of interviews ahead of me, and I was already as ravenous as Ned. We’d all need to eat eventually, wouldn’t we? The kitchen was right down the hall from the parlor, and Norton worked alone. The only opportunity he’d have for collusion was with the deli meat.

“That’s fine,” I said decisively. “I’m stepping out to make a call.” I was still wearing my jacket, and the fire in the parlor had brought up the temperature in the house. Between the heat and my hunger, my head swam. “Wellington will be here to . . .”

“Keep an eye on things,” Tim said.

“Right,” said Norton. “In case it’s the butler in the kitchen with the knife.” His entire head went fuchsia. “My God, I’m sorry. I can’t believe I said that.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Tim. “Nerves. Happens to everyone when cops are around.”

Norton nodded. “Thanks for your help with this. It’s a hell of a thing. We’re all glad you’re here.”

We’ll see how long that lasts, I thought as I watched Norton walk to the kitchen and made my way down the hall. In my ten years working as a detective I’d only been popular with one suspect, and that case nearly got me killed.

I wasn’t in the habit of calling Carson from work. I didn’t want to remind him what I was doing, and he didn’t want to be reminded. At the same time, it was clear Tim and I were going to be occupied on the island for hours. The least I could do was let him know where I was.

I pushed open the front door, savored the cold air on my skin, and dialed. Carson, when he answered, sounded distracted. I could hear him typing on his laptop while an industrial cappuccino machine hissed and spit in the background. He was at the coffee shop again, and not likely to be chipper. My timing couldn’t have been worse.

When he first brought up the idea of leaving the city, I was as worried about him as about myself. What did Jefferson County have to offer a man like Dr. Carson Gates? What would he do in a little village upstate after the stellar career he’d built in the city? The money he’d been making in Queens was good, the work important. It satisfied him, and that satisfied me—after all, his work was what brought us together. We owed a lot to his job. Yet he didn’t hesitate to leave it for me.

Over time I warmed to the idea of him opening his own practice in Alexandria Bay. I imagined I would visit him when he was between patients and we’d share a tuna fish sandwich at his spotless glass desk. Three months into our new life, though, there was still no desk, no office. He was ironing out the details, constantly visiting potential locations. He was arranging meetings with local physicians to lay the groundwork for referrals. He liked that part of the process. But I could tell he was getting impatient, especially on the days he didn’t have somewhere to go. That’s when he’d head to the coffee shop around the corner from our short-term rental to send e-mails. The place was dingy and crowded, the coffee burned, but it was better than our apartment, which was well below Carson’s standards. Whenever I suggested finding someplace better, he reminded me setting up a new business while planning a wedding takes major cash. To do it all right, we had to save a little now. We’d be glad we did later, he explained, once we were settled into a big, contemporary house on Swan Bay.