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Felicity took dozens more photos. Sometimes small details jumped out with a breakthrough when reviewing the images on a larger monitor. Finally satisfied, she made her way up the pathway to interview the woman.

The memory slipped in before Felicity could stop it…

Her second week in town. Off duty. Snow falling thick and fast, turning the roads slick and empty.

She spotted the old sedan on the shoulder just outside of town, hood raised, hazard lights blinking weakly through the storm. As she passed, she caught sight of the small figure standing in front of the engine.

She almost kept on driving.

Almost.

But even off-duty, she couldn’t ignore a stranded motorist. She pulled up and walked over. “You need help?”

The older woman turned, her face softening with relief. “You’re the new deputy.”

“Yes, ma’am. Felicity Graham.”

“Car died on me.”

Felicity called a tow truck and waited with Ms. Harmon in the warmth of her personal vehicle, a black Bronco, while the snow piled up outside. The woman talked the whole time — about the weather, the town, the dogs she needed to get back to.

When the truck finally arrived, Felicity drove her home.

Merely doing her civic duty.

She thought that was the end of it.

The next evening there was a knock at her apartment door. Ms. Harmon stood there holding a basket. “For you,” she said.

Before she could recover from her surprise, the old woman walked right into the apartment and set it on the counter. She unpacked a cast iron pot, a small plastic tub, and a cloth-wrapped bundle.

Hungry, Felicity lifted the lid before she could stop herself.

The smell hit her instantly. Old. Familiar.

Beef. Dill. Cabbage. Slow-cooked broth.

“Shchi,” Felicity murmured automatically, her voice thick with memory.

“You know it.”

Felicity froze, regretting the slip.

“Not many Americans do.” For a moment the woman studied her carefully. Then a slow smile spread across her face. “Ah,” she murmured, a knowing smile appearing. “Odna iz nas.”

One of us.

“Who would do this, dorogaya?” Dear.

The older woman’s quiet question pulled Felicity back to the present. There was no anger in her tone — just a kind of puzzled disbelief.

Felicity wasn’t in the habit of making promises to victims.

But Galina Harmon…

Yeah. The woman had a way of worming past her defenses, slow and steady, with that relentless persistence of hers. “I don’t know. But I intend to find out.”

Galina smiled and patted Felicity’s cheek. “I know you will.” She turned toward the front door. “You will come inside now. I made kompot yesterday. It’s already too hot to stand out here and answer your questions.”