Once I got to the foyer, I checked the peephole and saw Shawn’s face. Despite the distortion, I could tell he was unhappy. I took a deep breath. Even though I wanted another chance to talk to Miss Longworth, I felt as if I had to tell him about my failure, and now was as good a time as any.

When I opened the door, I was surprised to see he wasn’t alone. He came bearing a pet carrier. And from the wails emanating from that crate, I knew it held a cat.

After he came inside, he set the carrier down in the foyer and, hands on hips, said, “You gotta help me with this . . . this . . . diva.”

I knelt and peeked through the crate’s door. He’d brought Isis. I offered, “Hi, sweetie,” and her reply was a wide-mouthed hiss.

I stood. “Sure. What can I do?”

“She can go back home, right? Your plan worked and you talked with the Longworth woman?”

“Um . . . why don’t we go into the living room and chat? You look like you could use some sweet tea.” Before he could protest—because Shawn likes to protest about anything—I started walking through the foyer. “Just leave her where she is. She’ll be fine.”

“But I don’t have time—”

I turned and gestured for him to follow me. “Yes, you do. You look like you could use a break. Besides, we need to talk.”

He reluctantly followed, saying, “I don’t like the sound of this.”

And your instincts would be correct, I thought.

Once we were settled in the living room with our tea—me on John’s old leather recliner and Shawn on the sofa—I explained yet again what had happened today.

When I finished, Shawn closed his eyes and pressed two freckled fingers and a thumb on his forehead and massaged the area between his sun-bleached eyebrows. We’re both redheads, but he’d retained far more freckles than I, and his hair was almost the color of persimmons.

He said, “You’ve done enough.”