The alcohol burns all the way down, but I drain the glass and pour again. The things I saw today hover in the forefront of my mind. Amanda Horner’s savaged body. The agony in her mother’s eyes. Jacob and I digging for the remains of a man I spent half of my life believing I’d killed. I know alcohol won’t solve my problems, but if I’m lucky, it will get me through the night.

Back in my office, I log in to OHLEG. I’m not familiar with the system, but I stumble around until I find what I’m looking for. The search engine is capable of querying numerous data sources from a single interface. I type in the name: Lapp, Daniel, enter the county and hit Return. I know it’s a long shot, but if he’s been arrested, convicted, fingerprinted or added to a sexual predator list anywhere in the state, I’ll get a hit by morning.

I’m in the kitchen topping off my glass when a scratch at the window startles me. Spinning, I reach for my sidearm only to realize I left it on the console table. A laugh escapes me when I see the orange tabby on the brick sill. I’m no fan of cats, particularly scraggly-looking strays. But this particular cat has skillfully appropriated my compassion. He’s pushy, vocal and has no idea he’s the ugliest thing to hit Painters Mill since Norm Johnston’s mug shot. The cat has been coming around since Christmas. Because he was so damn skinny, I began putting out the occasional bowl of milk. That, of course, led to the occasional bowl of cat food. Tonight, with the temperature hovering around zero, I’m no doubt obligated to bring him inside.

I pad to the back door and open it. The tabby darts in with a burst of cold and looks at me as if to ask “what took you so long?”

“Don’t get used to it,” I mutter.

The cat purrs at the sound of my voice, and I wonder how he can still trust human beings when he’s evidently spent the brunt of his life being neglected and abused by them.

Bending, I pick him up. The animal makes a halfhearted attempt to bite me. I manage to avoid his teeth. Slowly, his body relaxes. He’s little more than skin and bone wrapped in a ratty coat. Making eye contact with me, he meows loudly.

“You’re going to have to settle for milk, pal.”

His ears are jagged from old fight wounds. A scar bisects his mottled nose. The whiskers are missing on one side of his face. A survivor who keeps going despite life’s tribulations. There’s a lesson in there somewhere.

I pour milk into a bowl and refill my tumbler with Absolut. Setting the cat on the floor, I raise my glass. “Here’s to getting through the night.”

CHAPTER 12

Birds chatter like children outside the kitchen window. I’m lost in the chore of baking bread. Above the sink, yellow curtains billow in the breeze. Beyond, the leaves of the maple tree tremble and hiss, revealing their underside, and I know it will storm later. The smells of fresh-cut hay, kerosene from the stove, and warm yeast fill the air. I want to go outside, but as always there’s work to be done.