I knew the voice instantly, even before I could see her. As she moved into the barn, she appeared first as a head, then a torso, then legs.

“Jesus, Don, what the hell are you doing?” Trixie asked. “Don’t you know who this is?”

“You know this guy?” he asked her.

“Trixie,” I said.

She cracked a smile at me. “Well,” she said, “most recently.”

CHAPTER 26

26

WE WERE ALL SITTING AROUND the kitchen table.

Claire had put on some coffee and was thawing a Sara Lee cake from the freezer. “Maybe I could just put that on my head,” I said, rubbing my noggin where it had hit the post.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Better,” I lied. Getting knocked unconscious wasn’t like on TV. As a kid, I’d watch private eye Joe Mannix get knocked out every week, wake up a few minutes later and carry on without taking so much as an aspirin. But there was a sizeable bump on the back of my head, and it pulsed with pain.

“Maybe you should go to the hospital,” Claire said. “There’s a small one in Groverton. You could go there. You might have a concussion, you know.”

“No, no,” I said. “I think I’m okay.” I paused. “You got any Tylenol?”

“We’ll have to watch you tonight,” Trixie said. “Wake you up every once in a while, make sure you’re okay.”

I gave her a tired look.

“You can’t drive back today, Zack,” she said. “It might not be safe, getting hit in the head and all.” She paused. “You’ll have to sleep here tonight.” She tried to say it neutrally, but her words seemed to carry some extra meaning.

“I hope the couch is okay,” Claire said. “Miranda’s in the guest room.”

“What?” I said, wondering if there was still someone here I’d not met yet. “Who’s Miranda?”

“That’s me, Zack,” said the woman I knew as Trixie. “We might be able to get you something more comfortable than the couch.” And I saw that twinkle in her eye, the one I’d seen shortly after I’d first met her, before I knew how she made her living two doors down from our house in Oakwood.

“So, what’s your real name?” I asked. “You’re Trixie, but you’re also Miranda, but I think you might also be Candace.”

Her eyebrows went up at the mention of the third name. “You’ve been asking around,” she said, impressed. “But my real name, the one I was born with, is Miranda.”

“Miranda,” I said softly. “What would you like me to call you?”

She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Maybe it’ll be easier for you to just keep calling me Trixie.”

“Okay,” I said, “Trixie.”

Don Bennet, his green tractor hat sitting on the table next to his coffee cup, said, “Listen, I’m sorry about all this.”

“Sure.”