But the evidence. Where’s the evidence? Until the police release their statements … Maggie shuddered, pressed her hands to her ears, and ordered herself, Don’t.

Aunt Wren, poised to snap a retort, glanced at Maggie. She covered her mouth.

Mom gave the slightest shake of her head. “Show us around.”

“Good idea. This way. Then you can wash up while I throw together a salad. We’ll eat and get you to bed early.”

The glimmer of the kitchen died in the gloom of the windowless hallway. Dazed, Maggie trailed her mother. The aunt led the way through the cabin, narrating as she went: “Note the wide-plank pine floors, all carefully preserved with the original dents and gouges” and “Even the paint on the walls is antique, totally authentic.”

Maggie tried to focus on her surroundings. They trudged into the living room. Rippling gray and blinking whitecaps filled the windows. Back in the hallway, the aunt swung open a door. It was her bedroom. The woods stood close to this side of the cabin and threw its shade, like an extra blanket, over the small space. The bathroom came next. Mom oohed and aahed at the sight of the claw-foot tub and pedestal sink, then Aunt Wren nodded instructively at an opposite door in the hallway (“Linen closet”), a second door (“Studio”), and patted a bannister. Maggie looked up. The staircase was so narrow and steep, it hardly qualified as a staircase. More like a ladder.

“I’ve only got two bedrooms,” Aunt Wren said, “one below and one above. You’re up there, Margaret. In the loft.”

Mom, determinedly chipper, said, “Wow. The whole second story—all yours.”

“Go on,” the aunt said. “Take a look. Watch your step. That one’s cracked. Keep meaning to have Sam fix it. No, check the right side. Feel the switch?”

“Ouch.” Maggie rubbed her head.

“Whoops. Sorry about that. You don’t want to straighten there.”

Maggie found the switch. And for the first time in a long while, she experienced a stirring of pleasure. The room was … something else. She shuffled away from the light switch, half-bent until she got to the peaked portion.

The space spanned the length of the cabin and held the warm redolence peculiar to attics. Its wooden floors, whitewashed walls, and sparse furnishings—just a dresser, a bedside table, and, positioned under three abutted windows, a quilt-covered bed—were made homey by the pitched ceiling. The room was all roof, and it pinged softly. The rain must have let up.