Page 82 of The Goat Next Door

She’s got a faint mustache of powdered sugar from the raspberry knot I’d smuggled out of the shop, and her tiny red-and-white sneakers are hooked over the edge of the old pine table.

She looks like a miniature version of her father, all focused intensity and stubborn expectation.

“Was it the goat?” she asks, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. “Did Mildred eat the diamonds?”

“Mildred was the prime suspect, obviously,” I tell her. “He had a history of illegal paper consumption and an unvouched-for alibi between the hours of two and four. But no. It was actually her own grandmother’s cat, who had mistaken the clasp for a very expensive grasshopper.”

Sophie lets out a high laugh that bounces off the peeling wallpaper, the sound so bright and unbothered it makes the knot of tension between my shoulder blades loosen for a fraction of a second.

She drops her forehead against her knees, her pigtails shaking. “Cats don’t eat grasshoppers, Emmy. They just squish them with their paws.”

“This was a very sophisticated cat, Soph. It had a financial portfolio,” I say, leaning my elbows on the table and blowing out a long breath that flickers the flame of the three-wick lavender candle sitting between us.

I try to keep the story light, but my focus is shot.

I’m doing the math in my head—if the wind is hitting the ridge this hard, the peat is going to be breathing fire. I don’t know why I’m thinking about it like it’s a living thing, but out here, the land feels like a beast you don’t want to wake up.

“Emmy?”

Sophie’s voice is smaller now. She reaches out with one sticky finger and touches the metal casing of my dead phone. “Is my dad still on the mountain?”

“He’s the Chief, sweetie,” I say, forcing my mouth into a wide, easy smile. I reach across the table and give one of her dark pigtails a light, playful tug. “He has to stay until the trees promise to behave themselves. It’s part of his contract with the county. He has to give them a formal lecture on fire safety.”

“He has a big shovel,” she says, her little chin lifting. “He can dig a hole bigger than the truck.”

“I bet he can,” I say, though my eyes involuntarily drift toward the black glass of the kitchen window.

The north ridge is entirely gone from view, swallowed by a thick, seamless ink that feels less like night and more like a physical wall closing in on the hollow road. The wind is growing teeth now, ripping the dried peony heads off the porch steps and sending them rattling across the gravel like tiny skull bones.

“Right,” I say, clapping my hands together. “Enough about grand duchesses. Do you know the song about the Ants Go Marching?”

Sophie’s eyes light up. “The ones who go under the ground?”

“The very same,” I say, sliding off my stool and dropping into a dramatic, wide-legged stance on the linoleum. My green plastic hair clip finally gives up, letting my curls tumble down into my eyes, but I don’t care. “Grab that wooden spoon from the counter, Sergeant Sophie. Your country needs you.”

I clear the kitchen chairs away from the stove, creating a five-foot stage between the refrigerator and the sink.

Sophie scrambles onto her stool, clutching a wooden spoon and a heavy soup ladle.

“The ants go marching one by one, hurrah! Hurrah!” I bellow, marching in a high-kneed, exaggerated stomp.

BANG! CLANG! Sophie whacks the pot with the ladle, her timing chaotic, but she’s grinning so hard her eyes are just slits.

“The ants go marching two by two, hurrah! Hurrah!” I sing, picking up the pace, doing a clumsy kick-step. “The little one stops to tie his shoe!”

Sophie shrieks, a high, piercing sound that cuts right through the low, mechanical rumble of the firetrucks passing down on the main road.

She drops the ladle and starts stomping her own feet on the metal stool.

“And they all go marching, down, to the ground, to get out, of the rain!”

“Boom! Boom! Boom!” she shouts, jumping off the stool and grabbing my hands.

We spin in a wild, uncoordinated circle, my boots sliding on the linoleum, her small, denim-clad knees knocking against my legs.

“The ants go marching three by three!” I sing, breathless now.

“The little one stops to climb a tree!”