A small storm moved across Hennepin County that night, toward Wisconsin. I slept through the thunder, yet woke abruptly before daylight. A brief moment of disorientation-Where’s Shiloh?- and then things came together in my mind, and I realized that the telephone was ringing.

“Hello,” I said, my voice rusty with sleep.

“It’s me.”

“What the hell, Gen?” My voice had become stronger, but also more irritable. “It’s five-”

“I know what time it is in Minneapolis. This is important.”

The note of dismay in her voice brought me from awake to alert. “What is it?” I asked.

“You know this is the last thing I wanted to have happen-”

“Just tell me.”

“I think they’re investigating you for Royce Stewart’s murder,” Genevieve said.

Relief warmed me. “Oh, that,” I said. “I’ve known that for a while, but don’t worry; I think it’s dead in the water. Nobody from Blue Earth’s been up here since they interviewed me six months ago.”

“Six months?” Gen’s voice, very clear despite the fact that she was halfway around the world, carried a distinct note of disbelief. “You’ve known about this for six months and you never told me?”

“Don’t be mad, but I knew before you even left for France,” I said. “I was tipped, but I didn’t tell you, because I knew you’d react just this way. Overreact, I mean.”

“Who tipped you?” Curiosity briefly diluted her alarm.

“Christian Kilander,” I said. “You know him; he hears everything.”

“Has he told you anything lately?” she said.

“What do you mean, ‘lately’?”

“A man came to Doug and Deb’s house asking questions. He was there yesterday, Deb said.”

“Yesterday?” I sat up in bed, sheets sliding away.

Deborah and Doug Lowe were Gen’s sister and brother-in-law. Gen had lived with them at their farmhouse in Mankato after her daughter’s death, and it was to their place that we’d returned, late at night, after Stewart’s death. Naturally, they’d be of interest to an investigator.