“Why not stay at our house?” Mel offers.

That is unbearably tempting. The house is a trilevel, the guest quarters on the bottom floor, with a separate entrance. When she and Harley visited, they always stayed at Flynn’s home. It is spacious, airy, homey, familiar. Mel is there. All things Rose positively aches for at the moment.

Prying her mind off the delights offered, “No,” Rose says. “But thanks.”

“Why not? It’s perfect!” Mel exclaims. “If we’re careful, Uncle Dan won’t even know you’re there. He’s so laid-back, he hardly notices I’m there.”

“It’s not Dan. It’s the murderers. If I’m ever going to get the Grandmother of the Year Award, Grandma can’t be leading the Big Bad Wolf to Little Mel Riding Hood. Flynn is the man who put me in Longwood. You think if they don’t find me here, they won’t go straight to your house? The man whose finger I have in the freezer isn’t the type to show mercy to the innocent.”

“He’d have to deal with Uncle Daniel,” Mel says.

“Dan is big and strong, but he’s not a fighter. Violence takes nice people by surprise. The damage is done before we even figure out the bad guy is serious.”

“True. Even a midget like Stella scares Uncle Daniel,” Mel says.

“Stella scares everybody,” Rose says unkindly.

Mel stands and picks up her backpack. “I’ve got school. Will you be okay? I can call in sick.”

“I’ll be fine. You get on with your day. I’ll work things out.”

“Last period is honors study hall. I can ditch. I’ll come over after.”

“That should be way before bad-guy time,” Rose says.

Rose washes down the cinnamon rolls Mel brought with a mug of tea. Fortified, she goes out the ruined door, across the weedy yard, to the garage. It is not so much a garage as a brick bunker, no windows, no side door, space enough for only one vehicle. Weathered garden gnomes stand in a line to one side of the door like Miss Havisham’s bridesmaids. The door lifts, sliding along runners in the fashion of modern garage doors, but this is an early prototype. The hinged panels are of heavy wood—rotting in several places now—and must be hoisted with a chain-and-pulley system. Rose manages with a minimum of cursing.

Inside is a single vehicle, Harley’s beloved mint-condition, cherry-red, 1949 Ford pickup truck. The truck takes up most of the space. An old croquet set, a couple of lawn chairs left behind by the previous owner, and the inflatable mattress they used before their furniture arrived are flattened against the walls.

Harley’s toolbox is in the bed of the truck. Rose lugs it back to the house.