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“You’ve got a lot going on.”

“I know. I like most of it.” She broke a piece of toast in half. “I didn’t come back here because I wanted to stop working. I just thought I’d be better at having a life outside it.”

I looked around the room again. Her work occupied the table and the spare bedroom, but the rest was full of things she’d chosen to keep: photographs waiting to be hung, the ceramic bowl beside the door, the chair on the porch. She’d bought a home, not simply somewhere to sleep between jobs.

“My house is quiet most of the time,” I said. “Sometimes I get back and realize the only room I’ve properly used all week is the kitchen, and even that was mostly for coffee.”

She lifted her mug a little. “That part sounds familiar.”

“When I left the Marshals Service, I wanted somewhere that stayed mine while I was gone. My parents were still in the Adirondacks, and my brother was here with his wife and kids. I wanted seeing them to be easier than organizing leave around a trip.”

Sybil set down her toast and listened while I finished my coffee. I could smell another piece browning in the toaster, and when it popped, she got up to divide it between our plates.

“Has it been easier?” she asked as she sat again.

“It has. EPG keeps me closer to home. But I’m still good at letting work have whatever time is available.”

“Especially when you like being useful.”

I looked at her across the table. She was spreading jam over the fresh toast, concentrating on getting it into the corners.

“Especially then,” I said.

She put the knife down and glanced at the papers beside us.

“I don’t want fewer contracts. I just don’t want every one to feel like proof that coming home was the right decision.”

“You’d already built a business before this weekend.”

“I know.” She ate a bite of toast before adding, “That’s easier to remember some days than others.”

I didn’t offer her another answer. We ate while the coffee cooled and the sunlight moved farther across the table. When she finished, a crumb remained at the corner of her mouth. I leaned forward to brush it away, and she caught my wrist and kissed my thumb.

I stayed there a moment longer than necessary before letting my hand fall.

“We should get dressed.”

Sybil looked toward the hallway, then back at me. “That sounded significantly less appealing than it did last night.”

I smiled and collected our plates. She took them from me at the sink, leaving me to bring over the mugs and put the food away. We moved around each other in the small kitchen without hurrying.

Later, when we left, she was wearing fresh dark jeans, a clean thermal, and her work boots. Her weatherproof jacket was zipped against the cold, and I’d changed into fresh clothes from my overnight bag. I took the keys while she checked that she had her phone, then waited beside the door as she reached for the lock.

***

By early afternoon, families were moving between the pumpkin wagons and the farm stand at Hollowfield. A child in a bright hat struggled to lift a pumpkin from the gravel while an adult waited with a cart. Beyond them, the attraction’s corn stood dull gold beneath the pale sky, with the tall floodlights still aimed over its access points.

Workers were preparing for the evening, carrying equipment along the staff side instead of through the visitors. Wheels rattled over the hard ground, and the smell of wood smoke drifted from the public area. Sybil slowed beside the barriers long enough to check the available space before showing her credential at the gate.

O’Shea stepped out of the farm office and waved us over.

Inside, the room smelled of coffee and damp coats. The scarred table was clear of yesterday’s maps except for a folder near the sheriff’s chair. Sybil stopped beside it while I shut the door behind us.

“I have the preliminary medical findings,” O’Shea said. “Justin died from blunt-force trauma. The knife beside him did not cause the fatal injury.”

Sybil rested her fingers on the back of the nearest chair. I remained at her side, close enough for her to reach me but giving her room to hear him.

“What does that mean for the charge?”