Detective Hal Inwood met us at the front door. “Ms. Hamilton. How nice of you to drop by.”

“Thought you might be missing me,” I said, thinking of all the hours I’d spent in this building, but the grin I tried to send him must have been a sad failure, because instead of tossing out an edgy reply, he gave me a long look and said, “Would you like some water? Or maybe coffee? Half caf, but it’s fresh. Made it myself not ten minutes ago.”

I smiled. A real one, possibly the first true smile I’d ever given him. “Thank you. Coffee sounds fantastic.”

We were dispersed into two tiny interview rooms, Rafe and me in one, Ryan in another, with Skyler in another part of the building, as he’d been arrested and was in the holding area, being processed into jail.

It took hours to explain everything. I fell asleep more than once, and it was long after midnight that Rafe and Eddie and I went home.

The next morning we were back. Only now I was wide awake, breakfasted, and had a nice hot travel mug of the Round Table’s coffee in my tight grip. Ryan was there, too, along with Hal and Ash. It made a tight fit in the small room, but we were all friends, so it was okay.

Hal, the elder statesman in the room, spoke first. “You look well this morning, Mr. Anderson.”

Ryan grinned. “It was hard to decide what to do first when I got home. Take a shower or shave off the beard.”

Last night we’d learned that two days ago, the downstate police who’d been looking for Ryan had called the sheriff’s office and basically said, oh, yeah, forgot to tell you. We found the guy who robbed the bank. He’d run off to Montana. Got him hauled back to Michigan last week.

I’d wanted to rant and rave about the inefficiency, about the waste of Ash’s time and energy, and especially about the unnecessary trauma Ryan had suffered, but I’d been too tired. And now Ryan looked so happy and content that there seemed little point in bringing it up all over again.

“Then I remembered. My shaver works in the shower. I could do both.” Ryan laughed, and I smiled. The old Ryan, the cheerful Ryan, was still with us. I only hoped the old plumbing in his farmhouse was up to the task of washing away four weeks’ worth of beard.

Hal flipped through a stack of papers and extracted one. “Here’s what we’ve learned since last night,” he said, skimming its contents. “Skyler Ellison’s parents were appalled by his early interest in the art world and did everything in their power to divert him from a career in that direction.”