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She didn’t say anything, just ignored her throbbing feet, trotted to the guest bedroom, and stuck her head in. Miles was lying on his back, the covers pushed down to his waist, his chest bare. One arm was above his head, the other hand rested on his belly. His dark hair was standing on end, witness to an uneasy night, and his face was dark with stubble. He was sleeping deeply.

She looked at the alarm clock on the bedside table and saw that it was only just after six o’clock. Let him sleep.

She stood there a moment looking at Sam’s father, really looking at the man she’d come to trust and admire in just two days’ time, then grabbed a couple of blankets from her bedroom and went back into the living room.

An old Road Runner cartoon was playing, but the kids weren’t watching it. They’d both fallen asleep. She turned off the TV.

She pushed the kids apart, marveling at how utterly boneless they were, just like cats. They didn’t stir at all. She got down between them, and managed to get the three blankets over them. She put an arm around each child and drew them close. They snuggled in. She smiled as she closed her eyes, holding their small bodies close and safe.

An hour later, Miles woke up, realized that Sam wasn’t there, and came running into the living room. There was the sheriff of Jessborough lying on her side, her hair out of its French braid, loose and long, draped over a sofa pillow. She was spooning Sam and Keely was spooning her, and all three of them were sound asleep.

For a very long time Miles stood in the doorway, looking at them, then looking at the sheriff holding them, and knew to his gut that everything was changing. He’d felt frozen inside since Alicia’s death, but no longer. He turned and walked into the kitchen, made some coffee and pulled out his cell phone to call his sister-in-law, Ann Malcolm. He had called her Sunday morning, to reassure her that Sam was okay, but hadn’t had time to tell her much. He’d trusted Butch Ashburn to keep her informed. He wasn’t planning on telling her much this time either because there was no reason to upset her with it all. He didn’t want to be on the phone anyway. He wanted to be lying in that living room holding Sam.

“Hey, Cracker, it’s me, Miles.”

She yelled into his ear: “It’s seven o’clock on a bloody Monday morning! It’s about time you called again, you jerk!” Miles smiled and she was off.

Miles held his cell phone a good two feet from his ear until he heard her running down. Then she started firing questions at him. He pictured her in his mind as they talked. She was wearing one of her gorgeous peignoir sets, no doubt—that’s what she called them, honest to God. Whereas her sister, his wife Alicia, who had always had both feet a bit off the ground and a song always on her lips, had worn flannel pajamas. Cracker was a part-time estate lawyer, with a big mouth and a sharp brain. She loved Sam, and that was the most important thing.

“Yes,” he said, breaking in at last, “everything is okay now. I’m okay. Sam is okay. There’s lots to tell you, Cracker, but you’re going to have to wait for the unabridged version. Hey, do you know anyone in Jessborough, Tennessee?”

“Me? I’ve never even heard of Jessborough, Tennessee. What’s going on, Miles?”

“That’s another reason I called. I thought we’d be coming right back, but not just yet. Sam’s seeing a local shrink, and I think she’s really good. She came over last night after there was more violence.”

Cracker nearly lost it. “Violence? What damned violence? Are you nuts, Miles? Bring him home!”

When he could talk over her, and assure her again that they were safe, Miles said, “I’ll keep you posted. Please, Cracker, don’t worry. Now, I need you to work closely with the FBI—Agent Butch Ashburn was here but he wanted to get back, to get to the bottom of this.”

“This sheriff . . . what’s her name?”

“Katie Benedict. She’s good, Cracker, really good. She’s quick, has a solid center, and she’s got guts. She’s probably got lots more, but that’s a good