And then he turned, whistling softly as he moved around the side of the house, toward where Ilse had last seen Detective Lopez.

As he left, she glanced back beneath her mailbox and spotted the corner of a piece of paper beneath a pile of freshly fallen leaves. She frowned, reaching out and plucking out the second postcard.

She turned it over. Hilda Mueller.

She sighed softly. That chapter was now behind her. Lucky—that’s what she was. Very, lucky. She could have ended up like her sister, messed up from the very beginning. Barely a chance to speak of. It was all so horrible and sad. Ilse sighed. At least she knew the source of the postcards. She carefully tore the thing in half. Then again, and again, until there was nothing but tiny pieces of confetti between her fingers.

She winced where her fingers pressed too hard against the paper, but then held a small pile of the tattered fragments cupped in one hand. She waited for a moment for the sound of the breeze to rise, the wind to sweep through, the trees to rustle.

And then she tossed the handful of paper pieces into the air, watching as the wind caught them and sent them fluttering away, over the rail, and across the ground until the postcard was nothing more than a bad memory.

***

A weekend of mostly sleeping and rescheduling appointments allowed Ilse some level of refreshment. But Monday morning still came quicker than she would have liked. She’d refreshed the bandages on her fingers, though the gauze around her elbow she’d left the same. She stooped over a small bowl of homemade oatmeal next to the wood-burning stove, inhaling the odor of cinnamon and crushed pistachios.

She was now wearing a green turtleneck and another pair of unmarked sweatpants. She glanced at the old analog clock over the stove.

8:54.

Six minutes and she could get up and unlock the front door for the first client of the day. This time, an old client she’d been seeing for more than a year.

She wouldn’t swear off new clients. Not at all. But for the next few days, Ilse had decided it would be nice to meet with people she knew.

8:55. Only five minutes left. She smiled in anticipation, but remained seated. One had to be precise in things such as these.

As she took another spoonful of milky granola, her phone began to buzz. Frowning, Ilse fished out the old flip phone, raising it. “Dr. Beck’s office,” she said automatically.

“Doc?” said a voice on the other end.

“Agent Sawyer?”

“Mhmm. Hey, I spoke with the office here.”

“Oh? About what?”

Agent Sawyer cleared his throat uncomfortably, and a long pause stretched. Then, quickly, he said, “You did good work. Look, what do you think about being a consultant for the field office? When murder cases come up.”

Ilse blinked in surprise, stunned. “I—are you serious?”

“You were right about one thing yesterday. I do value loyalty. But also competence. You displayed both. Well? Interested?”