Maggie forked the chicken and set the pieces on some paper towels to soak up the grease. She reached down and wiped her hands on the apron she was wearing over her jeans. Looking pretty domestic except for the sleeveless Marc Bolan T-shirt. She’d been trying to keep it all slow and easy on the farm, keep the doors and windows open to the nice cool fall air, make sure everyone was fed and happy, and pretend like all of this wasn’t so damn personal to her. She didn’t want Brandon to feel a damn bit of how she felt at the moment.

“This will work out,” Maggie said, walking over to the table, straightening the flowers she’d picked and put in an old whiskey bottle.

“How can you be so sure?”

“It takes time,” Maggie said. “Quinn’s reopened the case. He’s talking to people. Making sure folks are accountable.”

“But, Christ,” Jessica said, waiting a moment to drink down some water. “Knowing something and being able to tell it are two different things. Brandon Taylor has been dead for twenty years.”

Maggie held on to the edge of the sink and closed her eyes. “I know how long Brandon has been dead. He was my friend and I loved him. Still do. Y’all didn’t even know him. It’s just a story to you. Words and memories strung together.”

Jessica was silent. Maggie reached up into the cabinets for some plates, the clatter reverberating in the still room, the Ray Stevens record hitting the center grooves, the needle going over and over the same spot with little clicks and whooshes.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

“No,” Jessica said. “It’s not. It’s the not knowing that’s getting to us. Maybe we shouldn’t have come here. We’ve invaded your space and your life too long.”

Maggie was about to answer when she heard Hondo barking from the front porch. That dog could hear Quinn’s truck from a mile away. A minute later, she heard the truck door slam shut. She could hear Quinn talking with Boom outside, Hondo clambering down the steps and running out to greet him, barking and barking.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” she said. “We’ve all been through a lot. Help yourself to supper. I’ll check on the wine.”

Quinn moved into the room, tall and spit-shined, dressed in his sheriff’s office shirt with the tin star and crisp dark blue jeans with cowboy boots. Maggie hugged him as he grabbed a piece of the chicken, nearly burning his fingers, and set it back down. He kissed her full on the lips, and she could smell his bay rum aftershave and feel his short-clipped hair in her hands.

“Did you bring wine?”

“Always.”

Quinn looked over her shoulder and said hello to Jessica. “Time to change that record. What is it?”

“Ray Stevens,” she said. “‘Everything Is Beautiful.’”