“Don’t beat yourself up. You’re too busy chasing the almighty dollar and losing your mind over paint swatches and sandpaper.”

“If that weren’t the truth, I’d take offense.” The only reason she’d managed to come up with the theory was because Silas had dumped her in a kayak with nothing to distract her. That time, that stillness, had unearthed a lot of things that still required some excavating. The fact that Silas knew that was exactly what she’d needed was one of the things requiring excavation.

“I also think I figured out where Ava Dedman Campbell came from,” she said.

“What are you saying, girlie?”

She laid it out for him, walking him through it. When she was done, he gave a noncommittal hum. “Might have a hell of a time proving it.”

“I think it might be easier than we think. There’s this thing called the internet.”

“You and your internets and your Facey Tweets,” Wallace barked.

“Leave my Facey Tweets alone. They might be all I end up with.”

“So you still want to keep working on this even though you’ve been making all this noise about leaving and your big-deal network offer?”

“How did you know about that?”

He shrugged, all innocence. “I may have accidentally borrowed your computer a couple of days ago.”

“How did you know my password?” she demanded.

“You talk out loud a lot when you have those headphones on.”

Maggie shook her head in surprise. “Facey Tweets,” she snorted. The cagey old goat.

“Well? You staying on?”

“I’m here until we have a last chapter,” she promised.

44

44

Silas opened his door and then thought about closing it in his visitors’ faces. His mother read the intent and bustled inside, looking cool and fresh in gray linen pants and a white sleeveless sweater. Mama B followed with a devious smile and a swirl of her full skirt in blues and yellows.

Kevin was much more enthusiastic about their visitors. He pranced back and forth between the women, lavishing them with licks.

“Are we really doing this?” Silas groaned as his moms made themselves at home on the couch he’d just vacated.

“Blaire, do you smell that?” Mama B asked, spreading her skirt out and tucking her feet up under her on the cushion. She was clearly settling in for the long haul.

“I do, Breonna,” Blaire said, nudging the greasy pizza box he’d left on the floor with the toe of her sandal.

“It’s the smell of a crisis that could have been avoided with a little awareness and effort,” Mama B said, adding a tsk-tsk at the end.

“I’m not in crisis,” he argued. “I am fine. I get up and go to work every day just like I always have.”

“Why is every pair of underwear you own piled in your dining room doorway?” Blaire asked innocently.