The agent needed a different approach. She put her notebook down.

“What are you doing in town?” she asked conversationally.

Lucy explained that she was here on leave from her duty in the Middle East. Normally she’d have met her husband, Bob, in Germany, where they had friends, but she was getting a commendation on Thursday.

“Oh, part of that parade, supporting the troops?”

“Right afterward.”

“Congratulations.”

Her smile fluttered. Dance noticed the minuscule reaction.

And she noted one in herself, as well; Kathryn Dance’s husband had been recognized for bravery under fire by the Bureau four days before he’d died. But that was a crackle of static that Dance immediately tuned out.

Shaking her head, the agent continued. “You come back to the States and look what happens—you run into this guy. That’s pretty shitty. Especially after being overseas.”

“It’s not that bad over there. Sounds worse on the news.”

“Still . . . But it looks like you’re coping pretty well.”

Her body was telling a very different story.

“Oh, yeah. You do what you have to. No big deal.” Her fingers were-entwined.

“What do you do there?”

“I manage fuelers. Basically it’s running supply trucks.”

“Important job.”

A shrug. “I guess.”

“Good to be here on leave, I’ll bet.”

“You ever in the service?”

“No,” Dance answered.

“Well, in the army, remember rule number one: Never pass up R and R. Even if it’s just drinking punch with the brass and collecting a wall decoration.”

Dance kept drawing her out. “How many other soldiers’ll be at the ceremony?”

“Eighteen.”

Lucy wasn’t comfortable at all. Dance wondered if her underlying uneasiness was because she might have to say a few words in front of the crowd. Public speaking was higher on the fear scale than skydiving. “And how big’s the event going to be?”

“I don’t know. A hundred. Maybe two.”

“Is your family going?”

“Oh, yeah. Everybody. We’re going to have a reception here afterward.”

“As my daughter says,” Dance offered, “parties rock. What’s on the menu?”

“Forgeddabout it,” Lucy joked. “We’re in the Village. It’ll be Italian. Baked ziti, scampi, sausage. My mother and aunt’re cooking. I’m making dessert.”

“My downfall,” Dance said. “Sweets . . . I’m getting hungry.” Then she said, “Sorry, I got distracted.” Leaving the notebook closed, she looked into the woman’s eyes. “Back to your visitor. You were saying, you made your tea. Running the bath. You feel a breeze. You go into the bedroom. The window’s open. What was I asking? Oh, was there anything else you saw that was out of the ordinary?”

“Not really.” She said this quickly, as before, but then she squinted. “Wait. You know . . . there was one thing.”

“Really?”

Dance had done what’s known as “flooding.” She’d decided that it wasn’t only the Watchmaker that was bothering Lucy but rather her duty overseas, as well as the upcoming awards ceremony, for some reason. Dance had gone back to the topics and kept bombarding her with questions, in hopes of numbing her and letting the other memories break through.