With as little fanfare as possible, I relay the details of Brower’s arrest.

Janine Fourman stands. “Chief Burkholder. This town can’t afford to lose its tourists. If people don’t shop here, they’ll go to Lancaster County. Do you realize how long and hard we’ve worked to get Painters Mill on the tourism map?” She looks around for the support of her counterparts, all of whom are nodding like mindless bobbleheads. “Protecting the citizens of Painters Mill also extends to providing them with a stable economy.”

Norm Johnston raises both hands, a symphony conductor quieting his orchestra. “Kate, we know your resources are limited due to budget and manpower constraints. Frankly, we’re not convinced you have the . . . experience to deal with such a difficult case.”

The words vibrate inside me like a tuning fork against a broken bone. I’d known this moment was coming. Still, the punch of shock is powerful enough to tie my stomach into knots.

Janine’s eyes glint like a rat that’s just stolen the cheese without getting crushed. “Don’t take this personally, but we’ve brought in outside help.”

I stand there, my heart pounding, sweat pooling beneath my arms. Dread is a block of ice in my gut. All I can think is that I’ve lost control of the case. “What are you talking about?”

As if on cue I hear the door behind me click open. I turn to see a tall, darkhaired man enter the room. The long, black coat tells me he’s not from around here. I wonder briefly if he’s press, but when I look into his eyes, I know he’s a cop.

For a moment I feel stripped bare, as if every emotion banging around inside me is visible. Vaguely, I wonder which agency he’s with. The conservative suit hints at FBI, but I know he could also be with the state. Neither is good news.

“Kate.” The mayor pushes away from his bagel and rises. “This is Agent John Tomasetti with BCI.”

I make no move to approach him or shake his hand.

Flushing, the mayor turns his attention to the man. “Agent Tomasetti, this is our Chief of Police Kate Burkholder.”

His gaze is level as he crosses to me. I notice several things about him at once. His eyes are as dark and hard as black granite, beneath heavy brows. He’s got a poker face; his expression is impossible to read. I guess him to be about forty years old. He’s looking at me as if I’m some stand-up comic whose jokes are falling flat. I don’t want him here and he knows it. But there’s not a damn thing I can do about it, and that lack of control brings a hard rush of anxiety.

“Chief Burkholder.” He extends his hand. “It sounds like you have your hands full.”

I accept the handshake. His palm is warm, dry and slightly rough. His grip is substantial, but not too tight. “It’s been a tough case,” I hear myself say.