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"Go back to sleep."

"'S it seven?"

"Not yet."

"Where are you going?" Her eyes are half open.

"Home. To make my daughter a lunch she'll trade for something worse." I brush her hair back from her cheek. "Then I'm coming back. Four o'clock. I'm not sneaking out. I'm telling you."

"Lock the door," she mumbles, smiling. Her hand finds mine and holds it.

"I'll do my best."

I go out into the hall with my boots in my hand. At the third stair from the top, the board gives a long, loud complaint that goes through the whole sleeping house. I stop with my heart in my throat. Then I smile.

I don't mind. I'd like the whole house to know.

Epilogue — Carolina

Two Years Later

The third stair has told on everyone who has ever lived in this house. Tonight I'm counting on it.

I'm sitting on it. It's a ridiculous place to wait for a man. The tread is narrow, my knees are bent at an angle I would never sign off on for a patient, and the draft from the front door finds the back of my neck every time the wind moves in the orchard. But from here I can see straight down the hall to the porch lantern, and I refuse to be caught on the couch looking casual.

I've tried that. He sees through it every time.

My phone buzzes on the step beside me.

Quiet night. Nothing to report.

That was at 8:52. I look at the one underneath, which arrived at 9:24.

Slight cow situation. Home soon.

I type back, Define slight, and get nothing. He's driving. It's nearly ten. The house is silent in the particular way it's silent on Fridays, the whole upstairs hall dim and empty. The yellow door at the far end with its owl poster curling at one corner. Nobody behind it. Faith has been at Ruth's since five with her overnight bag and her notebook and a very serious list of things she plans to cross-examine her grandmother about.

The clinic closed at four. I've had a shower, and a glass of cider that I haven't touched, and I've changed my sweater twice.

Headlights sweep across the hall window.

They go over the wall and the coat tree and the old sampler that still hangs crooked beside the door. BLESS THIS MESS. I know the sound of the tires on the gravel as well as I know my own pulse. A door shuts. Boots come up the porch steps, unhurried. A key turns in the lock. The door swings open on a gust of cold air and woodsmoke and the faint sweet smell of fallen apples.

He stops on the mat.

Ethan is in uniform, with his duty belt on and his hat in one hand. There's a long wisp of hay caught in his beard. He takes in the hall, the lantern, and the woman sitting on the stairs with her chin on her knee. The corner of his mouth begins to lift before he can stop it.

"Evening, Ms. Whitaker."

"Deputy."

"You're on the stairs."

"I'm assessing."

"Assessing what?"

"Your arrival. Time, nine fifty-three. Condition, hay on both knees."