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"I don't know, Faith. I can't promise I'll be here tomorrow. I won't tell you something I'm not sure of."

She nods slowly. I see her think it through in her small, serious way. She picks at the fox's ear.

"Daddy says people leave because they have to. Not because of me. That's what he told me about my mom."

The air in the room goes thin. I can't speak for a moment.

"Your dad's right. It's never because of you. Not ever. You're the best detective I've ever met, and the best pancake supervisor, and the only person in the world who has ever drawn me holding a frying pan. If I could stay for no other reason than that, I would."

"But you can't."

"I don't know yet." I hold out my hand and she puts hers in it. Her fingers are small and damp and sticky. I close mine over them. "I'll say this, and it's true. I'll see you before I leave town. I won't disappear without telling you goodbye properly. Is that fair?"

She considers it. "That's fair. A real goodbye."

"A real one."

"And you'll think about Thanksgiving."

"I'll think about it a lot."

She nods once. Then she throws both arms around my neck and holds on. She smells of soap and bubbles and crayon. I put my arms around her and press my face into her damp hair and hold on with everything I have.

I count to ten. I let go.

Downstairs the front hall is empty. The kitchen light is on. I can see Ethan's shape through the doorway, standing at the sink with his back to me and both hands on the counter. He doesn't turn around.

I pick up the skillet from the bench by the door, because it's mine, and shoulder my bag, and let myself out into the dark.

"Carolina."

He's come to the doorway behind me. I stop on the porch step with my hand on the rail.

"Call me when you're there."

"Is that a rule?"

"It's a request."

"You told me you don't call."

"I know what I told you." His voice is rough. "I'm asking you to."

He holds out his hand. After a second I put my phone in it. He types, then hands it back. The screen says ETHAN, and a number.

I turn my head. In the yellow light from the hall his face is stripped bare, the way it was in the orchard. For a heartbeat I think, Say it. Whatever it is. Say it now.

"Good night, Ethan."

I drive up the hill with the radio off and both hands on the wheel. The road is dark and lined with trees. Faith's drawing is folded in my back pocket, and I can feel its corner every time I shift in the seat.

Twice I have to wipe my face with the heel of my hand. I don't stop the car. I'm not going to sit at the bottom of a lane crying like a girl in a parked car, waiting for a man to come and tell me what to do.

I've done that. I know what it costs.

At the top of the hill the farmhouse stands black and quiet, with Kieran's cameras blinking green at the corners of the barn. The tarp by the porch rail is a pale lump in the dark. I sit in the car for a long moment with the engine running, looking at the word on the barn doors in my headlights. SELL, huge and stark and brick red.

Then I turn off the engine and go inside.