“Absolutely.” June slipped off her oven mitts and gestured for Finley to follow. “I tucked it away for safekeeping.”

They made their way upstairs to the reading room connected to the master bedroom. June knelt before her bookshelf and slid her fingers along the spines of her journals, which were arranged by year. For as long as Finley had known her, her aunt had kept her household well-organized. Winter accessories in labeled bins. Pictures in scrapbooks. Prayer requests and mementos in her journals.

She pulled out the journal belonging to the year of Dad’s arrest and flipped through it until she located a folded sheet of paper. She handed it to Finley.

The poem was titled “Carla.”

You.

A woman of feelings. Deep and rich.

Of songs. Loss and hope.

Of dreams. Found and faded.

Of passion. Unashamed and bold.

Of creativity. Mystical and awe-inspiring.

A woman of love. True and loyal.

You.

This poem, like many of his others, gave evidence of his romantic soul. He’d written the words on a simple sheet of unlined paper. She turned it over, exposing a sketch. Her father had often doodled scenes like this when deep in thought. This time, he’d drawn mountains, a stream, a pond.

“June?” Robbie called from downstairs.

“Be there in a minute,” June called back.

“May I take this home with me and return it to you the next time I see you?” Finley asked.

“Be my guest.”

“I’d like to have it photocopied so I can add it to my collection.”

“Of course.” June squeezed Finley’s hand. “Your dad told me that he wrote it for Carla before her death. He wasn’t quite happy with it. He’d wanted to edit it, but then she died in such a sudden and tragic way. He never had the chance to show the poem to her. He gave it to me later, when he was out on bail. He said he wanted me to have it so that it could serve as a reminder not to postpone things because you’re hoping for perfection. If he were here, I think he’d encourage us to go ahead and do and say the things we feel led to do and say.”

Tears stung the back of Finley’s eyes. “Amen.”

The drive home to Misty River cocooned Luke and Finley in shades of black as they racked their brains and talked in circles regarding possible clues stemming from their evening with her aunt and uncle.

Robbie had told them that the day before Carla died had been filled with horses, barbecue, talk radio.

At this point, they couldn’t see how talk radio might prove relevant.

Horses? Maybe. She’d had a horse when she was young, but they’d housed it at a friend’s stable. Her dad sold the horse during her high school years, and their friends sold the stable a few years later.