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The Farmers’ Market was near the old train station, past the tracks, in an open area the city had recently purchased called the Rail Yard. Farmers drove their loaded pickups in and parked in spaces they’d been assigned. Some set up tables and put up awnings. Others just sold from the back of their trucks. There were taste samples of everything from pies to salsa. A bluegrass band played in a corner. Somebody dressed up as a clown wandered through the crowd.

“See, it’s not so bad,” the sergeant said.

Romero walked listlessly past stands of cider, herbal remedies, free-range chicken, and sunflower sprouts. In a detached way, he had to admit, “Yeah, not so bad.” All the years he’d worked for the police department, he’d never been here—another example of how he’d let his life pass him by. But instead of motivating him to learn from his mistakes, his regret only made him more depressed.

“How about some of these little pies?” the sergeant’s wife asked. “You can keep them in the freezer and heat one up when you feel like it. They’re only one or two servings, so you won’t have any leftovers.”

“Sure,” Romero said, not caring. “Why not?” His dejected gaze drifted over the crowd.

“What kind?”

“Excuse me?”

“What kind? Peach or butter pecan?”

“It doesn’t matter. Choose some for me.”

His gaze settled on a stand that offered religious icons made out of corn husks layered over carved wood: Madonnas, manger scenes, and crosses. The skillfully formed images were painted and covered with a protective layer of varnish. It was a traditional Hispanic folk art, but what caught Romero’s attention wasn’t the attractiveness of the images but rather that an Anglo instead of a Hispanic was selling them as if he’d made them.

“This apple pie looks good, too,” the sergeant’s wife said.

“Fine.” Assessing the tall, thin, sandy-haired man selling the icons, Romero added, “I know that guy from somewhere.”

“What?” the sergeant’s wife asked.

“Nothing. I’ll be back in a second to get the pies.” Romero made his way through the crowd. The young man’s fair hair was extremely short. His thin face emphasized his cheekbones, making him look as if he’d been fasting. He had an aesthetic quality similar to that on the faces of the icons he was selling. Not that he looked ill. The opposite. His tan skin glowed.

His voice, too, seemed familiar. As Romero approached, he heard the reedy gentle tone with which the young man explained to a customer the intricate care with which the icons were created.

Romero waited until the customer walked off with her purchase.

“Yes, sir?”

“I know you from somewhere, but I just can’t seem to place you.”

“I wish I could help you, but I don’t think we’ve met.”

Romero noticed the small crystal that hung from a woven cord on the young man’s neck. It had a hint of pale blue in it, as if borrowing some of the blue in the young man’s eyes. “Maybe you’re right. It’s just that you seem so awfully—”

Movement to his right distracted him, a young man carrying a large basket of tomatoes from a pickup truck and setting it next to baskets of cucumbers, peppers, squash, carrots, and other vegetables on a stand next to this one.

But more than the movement distracted him. The young man was tall and thin, with short sandy hair and a lean aesthetic face. He had clear blue eyes that seemed to lend some of their color to the small crystal hanging from his neck. He wore faded jeans and a white T-shirt, the same as the young man to whom Romero had been talking. The white of the shirt emphasized his glowing tan.

“You are right,” Romero told the first man. “We haven’t met. Your brother’s the one I met.”

The newcomer looked puzzled.

“It’s true, isn’t it?” Romero asked. “The two of you are brothers? That’s why I got confused. But I still can’t remember where—”

“Luke Parsons.” The newcomer extended his hand.

“Gabe Romero.”

The young man’s forearm was sinewy, his handshake firm.

Romero needed all of his discipline and training not to react, his mind reeling