Yet as she walked back to her car with the notebook containing the genesis of an idea tucked in her purse, a question from her conscience niggled at her.

Are you certain of that?

Steve tossed the remains of his nuked frozen dinner in the trash, guzzled the last of his iced tea, and rinsed the glass in the kitchen sink.

The only sound in the too-quiet house was the running faucet and a pinging hot-water pipe.

Sighing, he dried the glass and returned it to the cabinet. Solitary dinners were the pits. And no prepackaged meal could compete with Beth’s home cooking.

But much as he loved—and missed—her culinary talents, the lack of mealtime companionship was far worse. Beth had always believed families should gather at dinner, and she’d worked around his odd hours to carve out half an hour every day for the three of them to eat together, share a few laughs, and catch up with each other’s lives.

It was a rare gift in today’s world, based on the tales his coworkers told of meals caught on the run while family members scattered to their various activities—and he hadn’t appreciated those golden hours with Beth and Jonathan enough.

Like he hadn’t appreciated a lot of things.

And now it was too late.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, he trudged out to the back porch. From next door, the scent of grilling meat wafted his direction, along with a muffled sound of conversation between the newlywed husband and wife who’d moved in a few months back. They must be getting ready for a cozy dinner.

That didn’t improve his mood.

He pivoted and returned to the house. After detouring to the counter for the latest card he’d bought for Beth, he sat again at the kitchen table. Pen poised, he stared at the blank space under the brief sentiment.

What else could he say that he hadn’t already said in the twenty-plus cards he’d sent her? Sorry as he was for what had happened, he couldn’t turn back the clock, alter the outcome. And so far, she hadn’t been receptive to his pleas for forgiveness.

How could he convince her he’d seen the light? Persuade her to give him a second chance?

His phone began to vibrate, and he laid the pen down. Pulled out the cell. The name on the screen wasn’t familiar—but it was a local number.

Let it roll—or deal with whatever this stranger wanted?

Rhetorical question. Cops always responded.

He pressed the talk button and greeted the caller.

A male voice responded. “Is this Sergeant Adams with the state police?”

Must be official business.

“Yes.”

“This is Will Butler. I’m Noah Walsh’s foster dad. He said you gave a presentation at his school last week and talked with him afterward.”

“That’s right.”