I introduced myself twice. She calmed down as it became apparent that I wasn’t necessarily there to murder her. She mentioned Danny was out with a friend; they were certain to return at any moment. Liquored to the gills and heavily armed too.

“Been back to Healdsburg since the fire?” I said. “Or is the boondocks version of Castle Dracula your new home?”

Linda was tan, athletic, and vigorous in the photos. Haggard now. Bloodshot eyes and matted hair. Shoeless, dirty feet. Her arms were sinewy and tough, though. I’d have to hit her fairly hard if she panicked and tried to bust a move.

“Yes, I have. The house stands,” she said. “The trees were singed. You were there?”

“Looking for you. But just to talk. It’s about Sean.”

“I—would you care for tea?”

“Relax, I’ve got it.”

I went to the gas stove, one eye on her as I opened cupboards. I found instant coffee, a box of tea, and a .41 revolver hanging from a hook inside a cabinet. I pocketed the bullets and hung it again. She watched me get a kettle boiling on the stove. She then watched me dither, rearranging items, handling them as if I were the Farmhouse Pantry Inspector. Pretty soon we had steaming cups of tea.

I sat opposite her in a rocker with my back to the hearth.

“Aren’t you afraid of bumping into June Pruitt? She’s only a few miles away.”

“What for?” Linda said. She was cooler now that she’d gotten her feet under her.

“It might be uncomfortable. I don’t know.”

She coughed dryly.

“This is another world, Mr. Coleridge.”

I sipped the tea; gave it a moment, then started in on her.

“Sean behaved erratically over the last few months of his life, didn’t he?”

“He was argumentative.”

“Forgetful?”

“His depression was exacerbated by stress. He could be extremely scatterbrained.”

I set Sean’s ring and the photo of him and Linda on the coffee table.

Linda’s face softened.

“Where did you get these?”

“Who’s Rita?”

“I—” She examined the back of the photo. Her brow furrowed.

“Rita was a golden retriever,” I said. “His dog in high school. This caused me to go over my interview notes with his coworkers, to call a few back and probe for anecdotes.”

“You’re right. I totally forgot Rita. He used to cry over her on her birthday.”

I’d watched a video of Sean as a child. Backyard barbecue; shaggy golden dog and the boy romping in the grass, Dr. Pruitt blasting them with a garden hose. The home video camera operator followed Rita’s exploits. She jumped into the pool, causing a ruckus. She stole a piece of cake off the picnic table and ran away with a slobbery grin. More ruckus. More shouts of, Rita! No! Bad dog! Rita didn’t mind; she got the cake.

“Signing the photo that way,” Linda said. “Sean was confused, very confused, toward the final weeks of his life. More than I realized. We weren’t speaking much. And when we did, we were really only yelling past each other.”