She wasn’t even a journalist anymore, at least not for the Herald. Identifying Ralph was not her problem. The old woman was probably just another one of the Herald’s kooks. Then again, if she did know something, and Susan had been on to something when she’d brought up Vanport in her column—that would be a vindication.

That would make her right. And Ian wrong.

She got up, took six ibuprofen, made coffee, and put on black jeans and a black sweater. (With the rainbow boots, raspberry hair, and yellow slicker, a neutral foundation was crucial.) She vacuumed up the smaller ceramic shards in the living room. Then she sat down and Googled “Mississippi Magnolia Assisted Living Facility.” They accepted guests from ten A.M. until seven P.M. And they were located on North Mississippi Avenue, not far from Emanuel Hospital.

It wasn’t Ian she wanted to prove something to. It was Henry.

She sat at the keyboard for a moment, gathering her courage, before she typed in the URL for the Herald’s Web site. If Henry had died while she was asleep, there would be a headline.

No update.

He was still alive.

Who was she kidding? Identifying Ralph wasn’t going to do anything for him. There was nothing that Susan could do for him of any real value. Unless she discovered some latent gift for toxicology, she was useless.

It was too bad Henry didn’t have a goat she could offer to take care of.

Then she had an idea. She couldn’t whip up an antivenom, but maybe there was something she could do to help. Her headache immediately lifted, and she found herself humming happily.

Good Samaritans lived longer. There’d been a study.

She tossed a couple of apples off the back porch to the goat, slammed her coffee, and headed out the door to the hospital.

*   *   *

Susan found Archie and Claire in Henry’s ICU room, one on either side of his bed. Claire was asleep in one, curled up like a child, knees to her chest. Archie was out cold in the other, head back, body planked at a forty-degree angle, legs straight out, crossed at the ankles. A copy of that morning’s Herald was on his lap, folded open to Susan’s column, THE DEAD GIRL ON THE OSTRICH. Her last column, she realized.

Susan always felt a faint stirring of delight when she saw Archie reading her work. It made her feel a little ridiculous—like a kid seeking approval. He was only forty-one, just thirteen years older than her. So why did she feel like such a teenager?