She stands on tiptoes, kisses me, quick as a lightning strike. Her lips are soft, taste sweet. Reflexively, I kiss her back. A trail of warmth winds from my belly down. I pull away as soon as I can. “What was that for?”

A slanted smile tickles her lips. “So when Dad asks when we first kissed, you’ll have to lie.”

“You’re hysterical.”

She wriggles her brows. “Gallows humor. You’re a dead man walking.”

“Seems like your mom liked me better than you.”

“I’m a daddy’s girl.”

Notepad in hand, I follow Sylvie and Moose out of the room. Despite not being her boyfriend, that I’ll never ask her father’s blessing, that if I do my job right, her career will be torched, my nerves are raw. Sylvie’s father might share his disappointment or worse. It makes me wonder what my own father would think of the career I chose, the decisions I’ve made . . .

Hana and Wess are side by side in the kitchen when we walk in. Wess is maybe five-foot-ten, thin, face weathered, a bump on the bridge of a long nose. Deep lines radiate from avocado-colored eyes. He’s in worn Carhartts, a dark gray flannel shirt, knit cap, and patched down vest. I glance at Sylvie—hands jammed into jean pockets, furtively glancing from Mom to Dad and back again like a little kid waiting to hear her punishment.

“Ah. Here are our visitors,” Hana says with a flick of a knife in our direction. Her daughter is a visitor? Wess’s eyes sweep the kitchen, light first on me, then Moose, finally Sylvie. Arms instantly rise to embrace his daughter, but he doesn’t move and they fall back to his sides.

“Hey, Daddy,” Sylvie says shyly.

“Great Danes were bred to hunt boars. Did you know that?”

Sylvie shakes her head. “His name is Moose.”

Her dad asks, “What are you doing here?”

The moment suspends. Does he hope she’s come home for good?

Sylvie takes a step toward him. It’s kind of tragic when he doesn’t do the same. Instinctively, I wrap an arm around her waist.

Sylvie says, “Just visiting . . . with Thomas, my boyfriend. He brought his cat, too.”

“Is the cat in our barn?” her dad asks. “We’re down a mouser. Coyotes got the last two.”

Coyotes? The impulse to check on Chris, make sure the window isn’t open, even a crack, tugs.

Hana pours oil from a silver container into a wok. “Wess, she’s an indoor cat.”

“Hmm.” Wess tugs his hat off, tosses it on the counter, unzips his vest, starts to take it off, then buries his hands in the pockets.

“He’s the reporter,” Hana says. “The one I told you called last month.”

“Pleasure to meet you, sir.” Wess hesitates then shakes my outstretched hand.

“Thomas is writing an article about me,” Sylvie says.

Wess asks, “Why?”

The chicken hits the wok’s hot oil, sizzles. Sylvie explains, “He’s fascinated with psychic-mediums.”

The silence says it all. “Your daughter is gaining quite a reputation. Her . . . people are drawn to her.” None of that is a lie.