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The small ring where Grant’s key once hung has been pulled apart.

Not broken accidentally.

Opened.

Deliberately.

Someone entered Mara’s bedroom, opened her jewelry box, found a specific charm among everything inside, removed it, and left without disturbing anything else.

That bothers me more than a ransacked room would.

This person knew exactly what they wanted.

“Mara.”

“I’m going.”

She puts the bracelet back into the jewelry box.

I wait until she walks past me.

Then I follow.

Outside, morning sunlight has replaced last night’s storm. Neighbors stand on porches pretending not to watch the sheriff’s vehicles surrounding Mara’s house.

An elderly woman in a pink robe makes no attempt to pretend.

She walks straight across the street.

“Mara!”

Mara closes her eyes.

“Mrs. Grady.”

The same woman from the photograph.

I recognize her immediately.

Mrs. Grady marches toward us wearing fuzzy slippers and carrying a coffee mug.

“I told Sheriff Tate someone was skulking around your house.”

Tate turns.

“You told me a man parked in front of your mailbox.”

“He was skulking.”

“He was delivering a package.”

“He sat there for four minutes.”

“He was looking for the address.”

Mrs. Grady sniffs. “Suspicious.”

Mara rubs her forehead.