“Excellent. It’s the right choice. I’ll also give a statement, which will add weight to your position. Let me contact the reporter now and I’ll call you right back. Hold tight, okay?”

Ten minutes later, my phone rings. But it’s not Lissa. “Cade?”

“Yes?”

“This is Bethany Beshett. I’m the education reporter for the Lake Towns Journal. Lissa gave me your phone number. Is Logan still with you?”

“She is. I have you on speaker.”

“Hi, Logan. I’m looking forward to meeting you both. I just happen to be in the area and was wondering if you could meet at the Riviere Public Library today. I could reserve one of the study rooms. Would four o’clock work?”

That’s thirty minutes from now. Logan nods. “Sure,” I say.

After I hang up, Logan says, “You drive. I want to research Bethany Beshett.”

* * *

On the way to the library, Logan reads several articles written by Bethany Beshett, but I’m only half listening. My thoughts drift to the last moments I had with my grandpa before he died in my arms.

It was a Sunday a little over five years ago. Nana, Mom, and Dad were at Mass. Grandpa and I were serving our guests coffee and tea and refilling the brunch buffet in the community room. Grandpa moved from table to table, telling jokes, impersonating actors, and making people laugh. Suddenly, his voice cut out. He swayed and collapsed to the floor. I remember running to him. I remember kneeling by him. I remember Grandpa clutching his chest. Someone called 911. Grandpa’s breath wheezed in and out. He tried to talk. A tear rolled down his cheek. Hold on! Hold on! I begged, holding him tightly. His eyes were fixed off in the distance; then they went vacant like an abandoned motel. By the time paramedics arrived, Grandpa was gone. He died from a massive heart attack.

At the red light, I raise my eyes to the cloud-filled sky, wondering if Grandpa would want me to give this interview.