“Let me be the judge of that.”

I rubbed my lips together. He would really sell the family homestead to be with me? The gesture certainly showed his willingness to commit to our relationship. And what had I done? What conciliations had I made? His plan required nothing of me, except to accompany him back to Rawlings.

It was a beautiful plan.

“So I guess there’s something you want to ask me, huh?” I said, looking into his eyes.

“Yes there is.” His fingers squeezed mine. “But I want to do it right. Take a drive with me to Escanaba tomorrow. Please?”

I nodded and smiled a big yes.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ve got to get back down to your grandfather’s. I promised I’d help him in the barn.”

I watched him drive off. A random tune escaped my lips as I headed upstairs. I shut my bedroom door and jumped, landing on my back on the bed. What a wonderful day this had turned out to be. So what if Candice had done a terrible thing a quarter century ago? It wasn’t my place to tell on her. And as for her more recent crime . . . well, the cops could do their job and arrest Candice if they felt like it. As for me, I gave myself a giddy squeeze. I think I’d just been proposed to. And not by some con-man seeking to use me for his own gain, but by a wonderful, gentle, caring, loving—my list of modifiers could have gone on and on—man who I was going to get to spend the rest of my life with. I was about to get the very thing I longed for, and nothing could stand in the way of it. I giggled and stared into space, imagining the ceremony, the guests, the honeymoon. I dozed off somewhere between the airport and the Fiji Islands.

36

It was still daylight when I woke from my nap. Downstairs Gerard snoozed on the sofa. Andrew slept across his chest. A combination of rumbles and wheezes came from the sleeping giant and his tiny ward. Where were Samantha and Missy? And who was in charge of Hannah? I stepped into the kitchen and gasped at the sight.

Hannah had found the black box I’d left down there earlier. Photos were strewn across the countertop where she’d made rows and columns and piles.

“Hi, Aunt Tish,” she said. “What is this a picture of?” She held out a 4x6 print.

I took it from her and stared at what looked like a kitchen science project. Bunsen burner–type stuff and tubing formed some kind of contraption photographed inside an old camper or trailer. I flipped the image over and read the label on the back, written in tidy handwriting. METH LAB/HIAWATHA NATIONAL FOREST. A row of numbers and letters looked like GPS coordinates.

“Just somebody’s dirty kitchen,” I said to answer Hannah’s question, hoping she wouldn’t require more detail. I picked up another photo. Two men, one holding a clear plastic baggie containing white stuff. I didn’t flip it over to see the details. I threw it on the counter with the other pictures and with a sweep of my arms gathered the photos into a messy heap and stuffed them as best I could back into the box. “Sorry, Hannah. These aren’t toys. Try these playing cards instead.” I found a pack in my drawer of inherited junk and tossed them on the counter.

I carted the collection of drug art up to my room.

Candice wanted my grandfather to have the assortment because he would know what to do with the information revealed. But now more than ever, I wished she’d given the box to him personally. I scratched at my forehead. Somehow having the photos in my possession made me imagine a yellow, red, and blue bull’s-eye between my brows.

I flipped the lock on the bedroom door. I sat on the bed with the box and stacked the photos in neat succession so I could fit the lid on. A series near the back caught my attention. I stared at the scene—the youthful face of my mother sitting at a round table with a man who looked remarkably like my dark-haired cousin Gerard. Could it be my father? Neither looked at the camera, but rather, at each other, seemingly unaware of the photographer’s presence. The setting seemed to be a bar of some sort. The walls were filled with beer advertisements disguised as décor. A sign with an arrow said restrooms. My hand started to shake. It was the scene that Homer Johnson had described, of the night my mother had died. Who had taken the picture? Candice? But she’d said she hadn’t been there. I flipped through the stack and found a picture of a twenty-some-year-younger-looking Homer and his buddy, Cody Baker. They stood in a corner of a bar by a window, near an entry door. The same round tables and tacky décor from the picture of my parents placed them at the same scene. Were Johnson and Baker the men from the past that my father had been afraid to confront that night? If so, maybe they’d lied about not being at the scene of my mother’s crash.

Another shot showed a fuzzy view of the back end of a truck. Circles of light, like spotlights, illuminated the vehicle. Rescue workers wearing longish coats covered with reflective tape hovered around the wreck.

I slammed the picture facedown on the quilt. My mother’s Ford. I tried to breathe. I flipped to the next shot. The profile of a crowd gazing at some sight on the ground below. In the foreground was a twisted and broken guardrail. Perhaps the spectators stood on the edge of a quarry and looked with horror or curiosity at the sight of a truck that had just crashed to the bottom. I squinted, recognizing the Johnson/Baker duo in the mix.

What did all of it mean? I stuck the last stack in the rear of the box, fit the lid, and set it on the floor beneath the window, next to the one Candice had given me earlier—the box with the photos of me and Mom and our short years together.

I opened my cell phone and dialed Candice’s number. Endless ringing. Of course. She had caller ID and wasn’t about to answer. Though she’d said she would be going away—Canada, wasn’t it? Perhaps she’d already left.

Brad would know what to do. I craned for a peek out the bedroom window, kicking the photo boxes aside to get a better view. Brad’s vehicle was missing. He must still be down at Puppa’s barn.

I scooped up the photo box nearest the wall and headed downstairs. The mix of voices indicated the women had returned. I stopped in the archway. Samantha and Missy worked at putting a meal together. Hannah did card tricks at the counter. Gerard was awake and leaning back against the sink with Andrew clinging to one hip. The sight seemed incongruent with my former impressions of the man. Yet over the weeks he’d become increasingly more comfortable with the Mr. Mom thing. Now he looked like a natural.

“Hey, Tish.” Samantha glanced at me in between measuring flour and dumping it in a bowl.

“Hey.” I gripped the box to my chest and headed toward the kitchen door. “I’m going to Puppa’s for a while. See ya.”

I scooted out before anyone could question my mission.

Just before I reached my vehicle, a voice called my name.

I turned. Melissa walked toward me.

She touched my free arm. “I just wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done. I didn’t realize when I first talked to you back in February what a savior you’d be. Because of you, I’m safe. And my kids are safe. When I told Hannah that her daddy was dead, do you know what she said to me? ‘Now he can’t hurt us anymore, Mumma.’ Even a four-year-old had more sense than me.” She raised her brows and looked at me intently. “Thank you. For everything.” The last word dripped with meaning.

I looked at her pretty face, beaming with future hope, and realized from her tone that she thought I killed Drake. She assumed, like everyone else must, that once a murderer, always a murderer. I backed away from her, wordless, and got in the Explorer. In my rearview mirror I watched her practically skip back to the house. I turned the curve out of sight of the lodge and gunned the engine, flying through potholes and testing the durability of my shock absorbers.

I turned onto the highway, then a few minutes later veered left at the cider mill sign, turning down to Candice’s house. I pounded on the front door. No answer.

“Candice?” I called, walking around to the back. The porch door hung open. I went in. Muddy feet had trekked through the place. I went from room to room, horrified at the chaos scattered throughout the once spotless farmhouse. The office had taken the brunt of it. Camera equipment, photos, and bills scattered the floor. Drawers had been pulled open and left askew. The pictures from the walls had been smashed against the desk, leaving a pile of glass and twisted frames on the carpet.

Someone had searched the place—no doubt looking for the black box. My heart thundered in my chest.

I raced toward the back door, but slowed at the sound of an approaching vehicle. I peered around the back corner of the house. It was Jim Hawley’s rusty diesel. I made a snap decision and headed to his truck.

“Hey, Jim,” I greeted him as if nothing were wrong.

“And how is Miss Amble today?” His posture and voice were laid back.

“Good. Are you looking for Candice?”

“Nope. She left earlier for a trip. I’m just here to shut the water off and check the locks.”

“Someone got here before you, Jim. The place is a mess.”

He swore under his breath. “Some people just can’t let the past be past. Always got to be dredging up old stuff. Even when Candice is doing her best to make things right.”

I wondered if he knew Candice had shot and killed somebody not long ago. Maybe in his mind that fell in the category of making things right. “Who do you think would do something like that?”

“Majestic, probably. Ever since you showed up around here again, he’s been getting his undies all in a bundle. Candice kept trying to tell him you’re no threat, but he quit listening to her when he figured out she was angling to fold up her end of the operation and turn him in.” He blushed under his gray beard. “But you won’t tell anyone I told you that, right?”