She nodded. “My in-laws want me to be stuck. A friend told me that my mother-in-law told her mother that they didn’t want me to remarry. They thought it would be too confusing for the kids and she was afraid I might take their grandchildren away. But I think there might be even more to it than that. My in-laws were really broken by Matt’s death. My father-in-law, Hank, was driving the combine when Matt was killed. I think he blames himself.

“What makes it even more complex is Hank’s own father died young and his mother never remarried. From things he’s said, I think he believes that remarrying would be dishonoring Matt. So, they financially force me into doing what they want.”

“That’s not right,” I said.

“No, it’s passive-aggressive. It’s how Hank and Nancy get their way and still sing in the choir every Sunday with a clear conscience.” She sighed. “I’m sorry to unload this on you. It’s just so good to have someone I can talk to. There’s no one here I could say that to without it getting back to them. I’m sorry that I lied to you.”

“No, you’re in a tough spot. I understand.”

We both stood there a moment in silence. Finally, Analise looked around the kitchen and untied her apron. “It’s late. I’ll finish the dishes in the morning. I take the kids to school early then go to work, so if you decide to sleep in, just help yourself to breakfast. There’s fruit and yogurt in the fridge and cereal in the cupboard.”

“All right,” I said. “Thank you.”

She gazed at me for a moment, then smiled sadly. “Good night, Alan. It was nice visiting with you.”

“Good night, Analise. Thank you for everything.”

She laid her apron on the table, then with a last, furtive glance at me, went upstairs to her bedroom. I walked to my room and went to bed.

Chapter Eighteen

C H A P T E R

Eighteen

The trapped are less concerned

with rules than escape.

Alan Christoffersen’s diary

I don’t know what time it was when I woke. I’m not usually a light sleeper, but I woke to a dim light coming from outside my room. I looked over. Analise stood in the doorway, her petite figure silhouetted by the light from the foyer. She quietly shut the door, then walked over to the side of the bed. I lay there looking up at her. She was breathing heavily, but said nothing.

“Are you okay?” I asked.