Cody hadn’t intended to spend the day after the auction sitting on Maggie Fisher’s sofa, surrounded by boxes of old newspapers, but here he was.

Maggie was in the kitchen making him tea, though he’d told her twice he didn’t much care for tea. Her response? “Nonsense. Everyone likes tea.”

So in a few minutes, he would drink tea because that’s what you did when you were with Maggie Fisher.

After what seemed like a lot longer than it should’ve taken to make tea, Maggie returned to the living room carrying a tray. He quickly stood and took it from her.

“I’m not an invalid,” she said with a snap.

He ignored her and set the tray down on the coffee table, then poured her a cup.

“You’re my guest,” she said. “Just because I’m dying doesn’t mean I can’t pour a cup of tea.”

“Oh, I know,” he said. “But now you don’t have to.”

She sat across from him with a defeated shrug. “You’re just like your dad.”

The words played at the corners of an old wound, threatening to uncover pain he’d put in its place a long time ago.

Maggie laughed. “Your dad was a charmer. You got his good looks.”

He really didn’t want to talk about his dad. Yet wasn’t that why he was here?

“Thanks,” he said lamely.

She eyed him over her teacup. “What brings you by? I’m sure you’ve got better things to do than hang out with the likes of me.”

He leaned forward on his knees. “You’re really sick, huh?”

“A little bit, kiddo.”

He didn’t want her to die, he realized in that moment. He didn’t like that the people he loved had gotten older, himself included. Time was cruel, the way it marched on without permission.

But then he supposed it didn’t march on for everyone, did it?

“I wanted to ask you about the note I found on that cross.”

“I already told you it wasn’t me.” Her cup clinked on the saucer, and a bit of tea sloshed over the side. “I wish it was.”

“No, I know.” How did he put this? More importantly, did he really want to poke around in the past? He’d tried to drop it, but the questions about the memorial and the note nagged at him.

That’s why he found himself here. Maybe Maggie could help.

“I was thinking about how the person who wrote that note called my dad Danny,” he said.

Maggie looked at him, her face blank. “So?”

“Nobody called him Danny,” he said.

Maggie set her cup down on the table. She leaned back in her chair and rested her hands on her stomach, eyeing him thoughtfully. “Sure they did.”

“They really didn’t.”

“I remember hearing people call him Danny,” she said.

“Who?”