Page 108 of A Gathering of Secrets

“Thanks.” Making eye contact with her, I reach across the counter and touch her arm. “Take care of yourself,” I tell her, and head for the door.

* * *

Once I’m in the Explorer, I call Tomasetti. “Where are you?”

“I’m standing in our kitchen, trying to decide on the Brie or Manchego, and letting this nice Spanish Rioja breathe.”

“Will it keep?” I ask.

“That depends. What do you have?”

“Fingerprints. I need to process them for a comparison with the latents found on the mason jars and the key.”

“You’ve been busy.”

I hesitate and then say, “Tomasetti, I don’t want to be right about this.”

“You mean about Viola Stutzman?”

“I mean about any of them.”

He sighs. “I know the lab supervisor in the latent print unit in Richfield. Let me give her a call. Can you meet me up there?”

“I’m on my way,” I tell him, and disconnect.

* * *

When I was a teenager, my mamm told me that it was usually a bang gvissa or “worried conscience” that kept people up nights. I think she may have been trying to goad me—or guilt me—into behaving myself. It didn’t work, of course. I’ve been an insomniac long enough to know that while conscience can play a role, it’s those other troubles piled on top of it that wreak havoc on a person’s peace of mind.

After leaving The Mercantile, I met Tomasetti at the BCI field office in Richfield, where he works. He got me through security and we met with the supervisor of the latent print section of the lab. Margaret Brooks is a certified latent print examiner. I don’t know how Tomasetti did it, but she agreed to process and extract the prints from the votives, do the comparison, and get back to us.

It’s nearly five A.M. now. I’d planned on grabbing a few hours of sleep, but after two hours of tossing and turning I gave up on the idea. Bang gvissa, a little voice whispers, and I find myself thinking of my mamm.

I’m sitting at the table in my big farmhouse kitchen, a cold cup of coffee in front of me. I actually considered breaking out the bottle of whiskey we keep above the fridge, but I have a sinking feeling I’m facing a busy morning. I’m going to need to keep my wits about me, because I also know that none of it’s going to be pleasant. In fact, if my hunch is correct, it’s going to break my heart.

The window above the sink is open and I can hear the cacophony of the bullfrogs from the pond. The hoot of an owl on the hunt. The occasional squawk of a goose that overnighted in the pond. They’re comforting sounds I’ve grown to cherish in the past months. Tonight, they don’t quite penetrate the darkness surrounding my heart.

“Kate.”

I look toward the door to see Tomasetti come through and squint at me. Despite my mood, the sight of him conjures a smile. Mussed hair. Scruffy whiskers. Sweatpants and a faded police academy T-shirt. He’s not a morning guy and he’s not shy about letting me know. This morning, he’s mindful of my presentiment, so he does his best to be civil.

“You get any sleep?” he asks.

“A little.”

“Uh-huh.” He knows better.

I motion toward the coffeemaker on the counter. “It’s fresh. Milk in the fridge.”

He pads to the counter and pours.

“I figured Margaret would have called by now,” I say.

“If anything, Margaret Brooks is thorough and a perfectionist to boot,” he says. “But you can rest assured that when she calls, there will be no question.”

“She must have owed you a big favor.”

“She did.” He carries his cup to the table and sits across from me. “Now I owe her.”