Allison turned.

“I have something for you,” Stevie said, reaching into her backpack and producing the typed paper of art supplies. “We found it when we were organizing the art pavilion. It was in a big box of junk, but . . . I know you like to have anything Sabrina made or wrote, so . . .”

Allison stared at the paper, then looked up at her, a strange expression on her face.

“The art pavilion?” she said.

“Yeah. We were cleaning it. Well, Janelle was, and she found this, and I thought . . .”

Allison turned her gaze back to the paper. Stevie couldn’t make out what she was thinking, but there was a lot of movement behind her eyes. Stevie was not great with intense emotions and felt the pull of the exit on her heels.

“I should get going,” she said.

“Yes . . . ,” Allison said distractedly. “Yes.”

Stevie was halfway to the library door when Allison hurried up to her and took her gently by the arm.

“Thank you,” she said. “That was . . . it was kind. Thank you so much.”

“It’s no problem,” Stevie said. Because really, it wasn’t.

“Sabrina was bad at typing,” she said. “It was a joke in our family. Sabrina could do everything, but she couldn’t type to save her . . . ”

Allison reconsidered finishing the sentence, blinked, and reset the conversation.

“How is your research going?”

“Not great,” Stevie said. “Most people probably won’t talk to us because of Carson.”

“They will if I ask,” Allison said, her eyes bright. “Who do you want to speak to?”

“Anyone who will talk to me,” Stevie replied. “People who were there. Shawn Greenvale, Susan Marks, Paul Penhale . . .”

“Do you have to be back right away?”

“Not really?”

“Come on,” Allison said. “Paul’s practice is only a few doors away.”

The Barlow Corners Veterinary Hospital was actually four doors down, next to the Pilates and barre studio. It was a brightly colored office, intensely cheerful, with many children’s drawings of their pets in crayon, almost all with messages thanking Dr. Penhale for caring for them. There was a coffee station and fresh-baked cookies on the side. A man with tidily trimmed gray hair and scrubs covered in cartoon puppies sat behind the desk. Stevie vaguely recognized him from the picnic.

“Hey, Joe,” Allison said. “Is Paul in with a patient?”

“He is but should be done in a second.”

As he said that, a door opened and a man in maroon scrubs stepped out, carrying a small curly-haired dog in his arms. The dog looked a little loopy and had a bandage on his ear.

“You can take that bandage off before you go to bed this evening,” he said, passing the dog to a woman in the waiting room. “But he’s going to have to wear the cone for a week, until the stitches heal. And no dog park for a while.”