I shrug, holding my expression steady. “Work. That’s all I know.”

Another day, another lie, teetering at the top of the pile. If Micah notices, he doesn’t let on. I see only worry stirring in the depths of his gaze, the way his mouth goes tight. He rubs a hand across his lower jaw, then tugs me toward the mudroom door.

“Come on. As long as I’m here, you might as well make me a cup of Paul’s fancy-ass coffee.”

We step inside, where Chet is still barefoot, but he’s scrounged up some jeans, thank God, and a Falcons T-shirt that’s seen better days. On the stovetop behind him, pans sizzle on all five burners—bacon and batter sprinkled with fresh blueberries.

“Hey, Sheriff. Want some pancakes?”

“Nah, just a double espresso, extra strong. Thanks.”

Chet’s not just making pancakes; he’s working the opposite side of the island like a short-order cook, moving between the espresso machine and the stove, sliding there just in time to tease the batter loose from the pan or flip the bacon with lightning-quick twists of a hand. While the second side darkens to toasty brown, he slips a cup under the coffee nozzle and works the knobs. This chef thing might not be such a bad idea after all.

The doorbell rings as I’m digging a coffee cup from the cabinet, and I peek around the corner. Sam stands on the other side of the glass in his uniform parka over heavy snow boots, staring off to the left of the house. To that awful word, faded to pink in the fallen snow.

I open the door, and he looks at me with bloodshot eyes, dark circles against a bright white background. A shadow of stubble decorates his chin. He points a long finger at the snow graffiti. “It wasn’t me. I just want to lay that out there first thing, that I had nothing to do with it.”

I roll my eyes, lean a shoulder against the doorjamb. “Maybe not, but I bet you wanted to.”

“Hell yeah, I wanted to. I’d take out an ad in the newspaper and write it with smoke in the sky if I thought it would do any good.” He puffs a humorless laugh, unable to stop himself. “But you’ve made it pretty clear you’re more interested in this big, fancy house filled with designer clothes and that diamond as big as your knuckle than you are in the truth.”

His words land on me like a bucket of icy water, and I shove my left hand in my pocket. “Paul cries at sad movies, you asshole. He chops firewood for grumpy old Mr. Guthrie, and he gives bonuses to his staff every Christmas, even the ones who don’t do much of anything, and he loved her. He loved Katherine.”