The kitchen was much neater than the study, but it still had some decorative clutter, including a few objects that looked like artifacts. Wayde probably couldn’t help himself.

A French press pitcher of coffee was sitting on the kitchen island with four mugs. There was also sugar and some half and half. When I sat down on my stool, I immediately started adding sugar to my empty mug.

Aubert walked around me and sat down on the next stool.

Miranda smiled as she went to the other side of the island. “Would you like some coffee with your sugar, Emerra?”

“In a second.” I dumped in another spoonful. “Okay. Ready when you are.”

She poured. “Joel?”

“Please. And thank you, Miranda.”

When he said her name, that faint pink color rose in her cheeks again. My eyes went from her to Aubert, to see if he noticed. He seemed oblivious.

I’ve always been a sucker for romance, so my first instinct was to try to get them to talk to each other. But I had an assignment from Darius, and it didn’t include acting as an amateur matchmaker.

I finished swallowing my first sip of coffee and put the mug back on the counter. “French press coffee is pretty fancy.”

Aubert chuckled. “Forgive me, but you don’t really strike me as a coffee connoisseur.”

“That’s true. But I hear it’s fancy—you know, from other people.”

“It’s supposed to be. If you make it right,” Miranda said. She had only added some half and half.

“This is good,” Aubert insisted.

“You mean I’ve gotten better.”

Aubert ducked his head to try to hide his smile. “Well, yes.”

“Oh,” I said, “you’ve made coffee for him before?”

Bad, Emerra. You’re supposed to be a detective. Not a matchmaker. Focus.

“Once,” Miranda said. “It was pretty awful. I’m glad you were willing to give me another chance.”

“I don’t usually turn down coffee,” Aubert said.

“How very discerning of you.”

“Oh, no, no.” He shook his finger. “Someone who drinks coffee all the time is going to know more than the person who drinks it occasionally. And I drink it black, so my opinion should count double.”

“And you think it’s good?”

“I think it’s very good.”

I couldn’t tell for sure, but I thought there was something in the way he looked at her—the slight arch of his smile, and the crinkles around his eyes. And, if Miranda’s smile was anything to go by, she seemed to like it.

And so life goes on, even in the middle of death.

It was an oddly cheerful thought.

“But that was your uncle’s press, right?” I asked.

Miranda’s face fell, and the light in her eyes went out.

“Yes,” she said. “Uncle Trev was picky with his coffee. He’s the one who taught me how to make it this way. He’d drink it no matter what, but I could tell how well I’d done by all the dumb faces he’d make.” She lowered her voice to imitate her uncle. “‘No, no! It’s fine!’” Then she twisted up her face like a dog trying to dislodge peanut butter from the roof of its mouth.

“Why didn’t he make it?” Aubert asked. To me, he said, “Now that man could make a cup of coffee. Even you could have drunk it black.”

I didn’t bother correcting him. A man who believed that kind of nonsense probably wouldn’t listen to reason.

Miranda said, “He said I had to learn—that he wouldn’t always be around to do it for me.” She shivered. “It seems ominous now.”

A strained silence fell.

I was the one who broke it: “You liked your uncle, didn’t you?”

“I did.” She took a deep breath. “He was a character. I wish I could have known him longer.”

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

“But he was your uncle,” Aubert said. “Didn’t you already know him?”

Miranda glanced at Joel Aubert, the man I was ninety-percent sure she had a crush on, and at me, the genius that used such technical phrases as “rinky-dink-shrinky-shrink.” Whatever she saw in us, she didn’t seem to find it threatening.

She lowered her eyes to her coffee. “My mother hated Uncle Trev. She’s…got some mental issues.”

I decided to put all my technical vocabulary to work. “Are we talking full-on crazy or a more normal crazy?”

“I think she has some serious issues, but I grew up with her, so I don’t know if I’m the right person to say.”

“And she didn’t like Wayde?” Aubert asked.

“She and Uncle Trev had a difficult upbringing. My grandfather was strict, and he tended to use a belt to enforce the rules. But Uncle Trev got over it. He made it a point to get over it.” Miranda shrugged. “My mom never did. She preferred to live as a permanent victim. When I was young, Uncle Trev tried to talk her into going to therapy.”

Miranda’s voice trailed off.

“I take it she didn’t like that?” I prompted.

“She was furious. I think she thought he was implying that there was something wrong with her.”

“There was! It’s called trauma.”

“I know, but she thought he was saying that she needed to be fixed rather than healed. She cut all ties with him. He’d try to contact her, but…” Miranda shook her head. “Once Mom decides she knows the story, she doesn’t listen to anyone else.”

“And then your uncle sent you a letter?”

Miranda nodded.

“Your Mom didn’t know about that, did she?”

“No, she didn’t. She wanted me to go to a college near our home so I could stay with her.”

“But you said you knew you wanted to go away for college.”

Miranda forced a smile. “You see the problem. Uncle Trev’s letter was a god-send. And when I got here, he was so excited. I think he missed having a family.”

“You’re it? You’re his family?”

She nodded.

“He didn’t have a girlfriend or anything?”

“I think he might have, but I never met her. And that isn’t the same as family anyway.”

My stomach dropped a fathom. I shut my mouth and looked away. When it came to the question of family, I’d have to take her word for it.

“What did your mother think of you coming here?” Aubert asked.

Miranda drank some coffee before she answered. “She’s disowned me.”

“Disowned you?”

“Yeah. She won’t talk to me, she won’t see me—all of that. She says that I’ve betrayed her. She wouldn’t even answer the phone when I called her about Uncle Trev’s death.”

“Miranda,” I said, “I’m so sorry.”

She tried to smile again and failed. “I’ll be all right. Since I’d already decided to leave, something like this was bound to happen. Honestly, I felt worse for Uncle Trev. He didn’t see it coming, so he felt like it was all his fault.”

There was a noise from the direction of the study. We all glanced at each other to confirm someone else had heard it.

“Is Agent Vasil back?” Miranda asked.

“I didn’t hear the front door,” Aubert said.

I put down my mug. “Something probably fell out of a bookshelf. There was a lot to cram in there.”

“It sounded louder than that,” Miranda said.

I thought about my careless Tetris act and admitted, “It might have been a whole shelf.” I slid off my stool. “If I broke anything, you’re getting a full bow of apology. I’ll get on my knees and everything.”

“Don’t worry. Half the stuff in there is junk. If something’s broken, we can call in Professor Frost and play another round of ‘is it real or is it fake.’”

“Sounds fun,” I said as I headed to the door.

As I was heading over to the study, I mentally practiced my abject apology, but rehearsal was cut short as I got closer to the room. I could hear too many sounds coming from there, and I was certain I hadn’t done that bad of a stacking job.

I turned into the doorway. There was someone in the study, and it wasn’t Darius.

It took me less than a second to take in the hoodie with its hood up, the medical face mask, the sunglasses, and the gloves. The person was standing by a bookshelf, and there was something in his hand—assuming it was his hand, and not her hand. One glance at the empty desk confirmed it. He had the scroll.

He turned and ran to the open window.

“Oh, no you don’t.”

I took off after him.

He had a head start, but I was smaller than he was, so I could fit through the window a lot easier. I was only a few feet behind him as we sprinted across the backyard. The gate to the front was open. As the intruder passed through it, he slammed it shut behind him. It cost me two seconds to work the latch and speed after him.

When we reached the steep, grassy slope that led to the sidewalk, I lunged for his jacket, closed my fist around a handful of material, and yanked. His feet skidded on the wet lawn, and we both went sprawling. Our combined tumble tore up almost a square yard of grass. Mud was slathered all the way up to my chest, but that was not my main concern. The edge of a paving stone had torn through my jeans and put a huge gash in my leg.

I’m proud to say, through it all, I didn’t let go of his jacket.

I felt him tugging against my grip as I lay there. He managed to rip free by rolling away. I threw myself after him, but I didn’t have time to get to my feet, so it was more like a violent scooting motion that tore up some more grass. I slapped at him, trying to get another hold. He flipped to his side, and before I could react, he kicked me in the stomach.

Agony.

The air in my body was gone, but I couldn’t take a breath. The pain sat there, glowing, while the desire to vomit grew until my body rang with it. It felt like a minute passed in this dreadful stasis before I was able to draw in my first shuddering lungful of air.

Then I retched, and retched, and retched.

Coughing, retching, and trying to breathe—that was my whole world for close to an actual minute. By the time I staggered to my feet, the thief had completely disappeared.

I wove my way back to the front porch like a drunkard, then dropped myself on the top step.

I heard the front door open behind me.

“Emerra!”

“Hey, Miranda. Sorry about the lawn.”

“Nevermind the lawn! What happened?”

“Do you have a first-aid kit? And some water? I don’t think I should come inside though.” I pulled open the eight inch hole in the leg of my jeans to look at the oozy, red wound. “Yeah. I’m still bleeding.”

I sniffed and picked at my mud-coated sweater. No wonder I’m cold.

I scooted the sleeve around, but I didn’t see any holes. Could you scrape your elbow through your clothes? It felt like you could.

Miranda said, “I’ll get some hot water and look for a first-aid kit.”

“Thank you.”

I was trying to roll up my pant leg without grinding more dirt into the gash, when Count Vasil returned. He was walking up the sidewalk toward the house, but he stopped at the bottom of the front walk to stare at the new mud slick. Then he raised his head, took off his sunglasses, and stared at the bloody, muddy mess that was me.

“Hey, Darius.” I raised my hand in greeting. “Any good news?”