it over.
“I see they still offer a free ice cream to any child who memorizes the Distelfink poem.”
He smiled, his big hands clasped loosely on the table in front of him. “Sure thing. It’s a rite of passage in Churchville. You must have done it.”
“Oh, yes.” Memory teased her. “As I recall, I insisted on standing up on my chair and declaiming it to the entire café. I’m sure I embarrassed my family no end.”
“I imagine they thought it was cute. Ruthie’s been working on it every time we come in. She’ll probably get the whole thing mastered by the next time we’re here.”
His doting smile told her that he wouldn’t be embarrassed by anything his little daughter chose to do.
Annie bustled out of the kitchen with a tray, sliding thick white coffee mugs and huge bowls of peach cobbler, thick with cream and cinnamon, in front of them.
“Anything else I can get for you folks?”
“We’re fine, Annie. Thanks.” Something in his voice must have indicated this wasn’t the time for chitchat. The woman vanished back into the kitchen, leaving them alone.
Caro took a gulp of the coffee, welcoming the warmth that flooded through her. But it wouldn’t—couldn’t—touch the cold at her very center; the cold that she’d felt when she saw the letter.
Zach didn’t pull the envelope out again, and at some level she was grateful. “Have you showed it to your family?”
“No.” She thought of all the reasons why not. “I haven’t told them much about Tony. Showing them this would mean I’d have to tell them everything. They’d be upset, and I don’t want that.”
That wasn’t all the reason. She knew it. Maybe he did, too. He watched her, the steady gaze making her nervous.
“Your choice,” he said finally. “Question is, do you really think it’s genuine?”
She stared down into her mug, as if she could read an answer there. “It looks like Tony’s handwriting. I’m not an expert.”
“If someone had a sample, it wouldn’t be that hard to fake three words.”
“I guess not.” She pressed her fingertips against her temples, as if that might make her thoughts clearer. “What would be the point of faking it?”
He shrugged. “What would be the point of sending it, even if it’s genuine?”
“Exactly.” At least they agreed on that. “It’s not as if the sender is asking me to do anything. It’s just a key.”
“Seems like if someone sends you a key, they intend you to use it to open something,” he said mildly.
“I get that.” She found she was gritting her teeth together and forced herself to stop. “It’s postmarked Philadelphia. As I told you, Tony said he had family in Philadelphia.”
“That’s a link. Still, it’s odd, assuming this is from your husband—”
“I don’t think we—I can assume that. It could be a fake, or it could be something Tony wrote that someone else sent me.”
“Why?”
“I wish I knew.” She rubbed her temples again. “Just when I get a line of logic going, it falls apart on me. Why would anyone do any of the things that have happened?”
“Good question.” He was silent for a moment, but she felt his gaze on her face. “Should I assume you want to get to the bottom of this?”
“What I want is to be left alone, but it doesn’t look as if that’s going to happen.” You could run, the voice whispered at the back of her mind. You could run away again.
But she couldn’t. At some point, for a reason she didn’t quite understand, she’d stopped running. She was here. She was staying. So—
“Yes,” she said, surprised by how firm her voice was. “I want to get to the bottom of this whole thing. But how?”
She looked up at him when she asked the question, finding his gaze fixed on her face. For a moment she couldn’t seem to catch her breath. He was too close.
Don’t be ridiculous, she scolded herself. He’s clear across the table. But he seemed much nearer.
“I might be able to identify the bank
“I see they still offer a free ice cream to any child who memorizes the Distelfink poem.”
He smiled, his big hands clasped loosely on the table in front of him. “Sure thing. It’s a rite of passage in Churchville. You must have done it.”
“Oh, yes.” Memory teased her. “As I recall, I insisted on standing up on my chair and declaiming it to the entire café. I’m sure I embarrassed my family no end.”
“I imagine they thought it was cute. Ruthie’s been working on it every time we come in. She’ll probably get the whole thing mastered by the next time we’re here.”
His doting smile told her that he wouldn’t be embarrassed by anything his little daughter chose to do.
Annie bustled out of the kitchen with a tray, sliding thick white coffee mugs and huge bowls of peach cobbler, thick with cream and cinnamon, in front of them.
“Anything else I can get for you folks?”
“We’re fine, Annie. Thanks.” Something in his voice must have indicated this wasn’t the time for chitchat. The woman vanished back into the kitchen, leaving them alone.
Caro took a gulp of the coffee, welcoming the warmth that flooded through her. But it wouldn’t—couldn’t—touch the cold at her very center; the cold that she’d felt when she saw the letter.
Zach didn’t pull the envelope out again, and at some level she was grateful. “Have you showed it to your family?”
“No.” She thought of all the reasons why not. “I haven’t told them much about Tony. Showing them this would mean I’d have to tell them everything. They’d be upset, and I don’t want that.”
That wasn’t all the reason. She knew it. Maybe he did, too. He watched her, the steady gaze making her nervous.
“Your choice,” he said finally. “Question is, do you really think it’s genuine?”
She stared down into her mug, as if she could read an answer there. “It looks like Tony’s handwriting. I’m not an expert.”
“If someone had a sample, it wouldn’t be that hard to fake three words.”
“I guess not.” She pressed her fingertips against her temples, as if that might make her thoughts clearer. “What would be the point of faking it?”
He shrugged. “What would be the point of sending it, even if it’s genuine?”
“Exactly.” At least they agreed on that. “It’s not as if the sender is asking me to do anything. It’s just a key.”
“Seems like if someone sends you a key, they intend you to use it to open something,” he said mildly.
“I get that.” She found she was gritting her teeth together and forced herself to stop. “It’s postmarked Philadelphia. As I told you, Tony said he had family in Philadelphia.”
“That’s a link. Still, it’s odd, assuming this is from your husband—”
“I don’t think we—I can assume that. It could be a fake, or it could be something Tony wrote that someone else sent me.”
“Why?”
“I wish I knew.” She rubbed her temples again. “Just when I get a line of logic going, it falls apart on me. Why would anyone do any of the things that have happened?”
“Good question.” He was silent for a moment, but she felt his gaze on her face. “Should I assume you want to get to the bottom of this?”
“What I want is to be left alone, but it doesn’t look as if that’s going to happen.” You could run, the voice whispered at the back of her mind. You could run away again.
But she couldn’t. At some point, for a reason she didn’t quite understand, she’d stopped running. She was here. She was staying. So—
“Yes,” she said, surprised by how firm her voice was. “I want to get to the bottom of this whole thing. But how?”
She looked up at him when she asked the question, finding his gaze fixed on her face. For a moment she couldn’t seem to catch her breath. He was too close.
Don’t be ridiculous, she scolded herself. He’s clear across the table. But he seemed much nearer.
“I might be able to identify the bank
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