He said, “It won’t be easy, the next few days. But I’ll come to you when I’ve sorted things through. Maybe tomorrow I’ll drive Caroline up to the lake; Miss Junie will need to know about Tab. That would be a good opportunity”—he swallowed hard—“that would be the right opportunity to talk to her.”

“I’m not holding you to anything,” Angie said. “I have no expectations. You could walk out of here and change your mind.”

“Not going to happen,” John said. “You may not be around when I get back, but I am coming back. And this time I won’t let you run off until we know for sure, one way or the other.”

Angie closed her eyes, and when she opened them Tony was standing a few feet away. It wasn’t often that she saw Tony without a smirk on his face, and just now that sight was unsettling.

“Hey, John.”

John ran a hand through his hair, cupped the crown of his head. “Tony. You in one piece?”

“I signed myself out. Angeline,” he said. “Let’s blow this Popsicle stand, what do you say? Cab’s on its way.” He held up his cell phone.

“I’ll be in touch,” John said. He touched her hand, ran a finger down her palm so that her muscles jumped. “Just as soon as I have news.”

TWELVE

There are many interesting folks here in Ogilvie, war heroes and politicians and men noted for their erudition and knowledge of our long and distinguished history. I hope you will not depend exclusively on sensational rumors and tall tales you must be hearing from the Liars (the name they claim with misplaced pride) who’ve got nothing better to do than sit outside the barbershop all day while their betters are working.

Your name: A concerned citizen.

Though she meant to sleep for most of Sunday, Angie found she was doomed to wakefulness, simply because her last conversation with John in the bright lights of the emergency room kept replaying itself in her mind, and as far as she could tell, there was no way to stop it. It was clear that she would have to find another way to distract herself through the rest of the weekend and, if she could not put John Grant out of her mind, at least minimize his presence.

Work, Angie told herself, was answer. She wrote long lists of things to do; she searched out her pens and color-coded and cross-referenced each item. First on her agenda was to organize all the materials that had been piling up on the kitchen table. On a raft made of paper she could float for a few days at least.

“This is serious,” said Rivera when she came downstairs at three in the afternoon. “You bought a label maker.”

Angie was sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by neat piles. She said, “Don’t step on anything.”