“The hospital should talk to Sergeant Everard,” I said, alarmed. “I gave you an informal, unprofessional opinion. I don’t want Sonia’s life in my hands when I don’t know what the bad guys are up to.”

I was awakened an hour later by Bernie, who’d come in with Pierre before flying back to Chicago.

I’d never seen Bernie in such a subdued mood. She apologized to me, over and over, for coming down to Kansas against my wishes, for not listening to my warnings about going out to the silo.

“She will also be apologizing to her coach and her teammates. She knows that one more incident like this will be the end of her college life, right, Bernadine?”

“Yes, Papa.”

I didn’t believe this meekness would last, but it made a welcome change.

The next day Albritten came back, this time with Phyllis Barrier, the head librarian.

“Phyllis carried a heavy load for the last month,” Albritten said. “She was visiting me that evening that August and Emerald showed up, wild with fear over what had happened at the farm. I wanted to call Pastor Clements, but Phyllis offered to hide them. After that she was the only person who knew where they were. She didn’t tell me, and I didn’t want to guess, but when you showed up like that, asking questions, noticing the missing photograph—we had a few bad days, not knowing how trustable you truly were.”

Barrier gave a wry smile. “Librarians can’t consult anyone, not even their lawyers, if we get a National Security Letter. I figured I was the best person to stand up to an interrogation. When you started snooping around the church basements, I was doubly glad we hadn’t involved the churches. I’m sorry I didn’t say anything to you that day you gave me Ms. Ferring’s bra, but she’s been wanting to thank you in person.”

She turned her head, nodding. Emerald Ferring made a grand entrance from behind one of the potted trees in the atrium. She was wearing a caftan in a soft green wool that floated around her. August Veriden, in the signature black of the auteur, was almost invisible behind her.

Ferring thanked me extravagantly for my “life-threatening efforts in the service of truth.” After a few moments of stilted conversation, she was willing to fill in the holes in what I’d guessed about the story.

“When Doris McKinnon rented rooms to my mother and me, back in 1951, she opened doors to new worlds for us. For my mother it was a journey to true love, a love that took me a long time to accept. For me, Doris McKinnon enabled my journey to an education and to my vocation in the theater.