“The notes. To you,” Ben said in a reassuring voice. “Evan is trying to verify if the one in the file is one of those he’s seen before.”

Any note sounded relevant to Connor. “Does that matter?”

Ben kept his gaze on her. “It could, but now we know who we’re looking for.”

Maddie shook her head. “Why doesn’t that make me feel any better?”

The answer came to Connor and he said it before he could weigh whether he should. “Because we still don’t know who killed Pritchard and why.”

An hour later, Maddie sat on the edge of her couch. She’d taken her coat off and kicked off her shoes. She thought about unlocking her safe and grabbing her gun. Stashing it nearby. But she didn’t have the energy.

A mix of panic and confusion zipped through her. The memories of Daria in tears as she found out the truth about Ned three years ago. How she pleaded Maddie’s case to the prosecutor. The night they sat and drank wine, exchanging stories and trying to make sense of the way their lives had imploded because of the men that ran through them.

She heard a clanking sound and looked up to see Connor washing their dishes from this morning. He didn’t push or pepper her with questions. He had two speeds and neither amounted to coasting. He kept busy, kept moving. He didn’t even know it was a form of running. But she did because she was an expert on running.

She twisted her hands together on her lap, massaging her palm with the thumb of her other hand. “Maybe I should leave with Evan.”

A mug crashed into the sink as he turned around. “What are you talking about?”

The answer was obvious. “My past is responsible for one man’s death here on Whitaker.”

“You didn’t do anything to the PI.”

“Connor, come on.” She appreciated his attempt to keep things normal but they’d passed that line long ago. “I’ve been in denial, insisting the danger was over and I could live like everyone else. Worry about electric bills and argue with the news.”

He dried his hands on a towel, then threw it on the kitchen island. “Some woman is searching for you. That’s all we know.”

Her head grew too heavy. She dropped it in her hands and stared at the Wedgwood-blue carpet under her feet. Stared at the swirling pattern and couldn’t look away. “I can’t be responsible for any more deaths.”

The seat cushion dipped as he sat down. “Whose death are you responsible for? You didn’t announce who you were and challenge people to find you.”

The swirls blurred the longer she stared. “You know what I mean.”

“Do I?”