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surrounded me, but the hustle and bustle of a city, even a small one, with a city bus stopping and going, car horns blaring, people walking by on the sidewalk engaged in conversations, could not drown out the pounding in my head. Black cars, white cars, old and new, big finned spaceship-inspired convertibles mixed in a blur, along with a mix of farm trucks on duty to serve up a chore. None of the vehicles mattered to me. In town, on a busy day in the grim daylight, I was invisible—not a lone human standing out in a field, feeling like I was the only person in the world with pain and more to do than I could handle.
    I felt a heave in my chest, and before I knew it I was crying. Crying deeply for the second time since Hilo gave me the news about Erik and Lida’s fate. My emotions were usually in check and held firm, but the murders seemed to be too much to bear. I hadn’t cried this much in years. Not even when Hank had had his accident. There were things to do and no time to worry about what couldn’t be done.
    The murder of my friends was just too much to consider. How could anyone kill such sweet, gentle people in such a vicious way? No one deserved to die like that. No one. I couldn’t conceive of such pure evil, of hate and rage so strong that it would lead someone to climb through an open bedroom window in the middle of the night and slash a sleeping person’s throat.
    I allowed myself another good cry. Maybe I would get it out of my system. Maybe it was more than the murders. I didn’t know for sure. I just knew there was a feeling in the pit of my stomach that wouldn’t go away but felt a little better every time I cried.
    Caring for Hank on a daily basis had taken its toll, too. So had managing the intense deadlines that came along with indexing books, and the constant demand to juggle my literary duties with those of the farm. I was constantly battling between the authors and publishers I was contracted to please and deliver for, and the bank that held the mortgage on the farm and the note on the combine, on Hank’s dream. At that moment, it was all just too much. I felt selfish. I didn’t know what I was going to do if I lost Peter and Jaeger’s help—a thought that had been at the very edge of acknowledgement. I had grown dependent on the help of the two Knudsen boys, but now they had their own worries, their own matters to be overwhelmed by. I sucked in a deep breath of air at the thought.
    My mother, if she were still alive, would chastise me. Tell me to keep a stiff upper lip, a woman’s work was never done . . . all of the clichés she constantly wore on her sleeve to help get her through the day. I had abided by them for a long time, but my restraint was weak, overrun by my fears, my weaknesses, and my own grief.
    After a few minutes of sitting in the library parking lot blubbering like an unwound idiot, I took another deep breath. “You have to get through this,” I said to myself out loud, then looked in the rearview mirror, wiped my eyes, straightened up my face and hair in the mirror, and put the truck in reverse.
    When I pulled away, I noticed a green Chevy sedan sitting across the parking lot with the window down. I couldn’t see the driver. His or her face was hidden behind a newspaper. It was odd, but not unheard of. A lot of people came and went from the library. It was most likely someone taking a break from work and seeking refuge in the shade of the towering oaks.
    I looked away from the Chevy and headed toward my cousin’s house with a gnawing feeling that I couldn’t quite get a hold of—or let go of. It was one of those feelings like something was wrong. Of course, my mind turned toward home, to Hank. I’d never forgive myself if something happened to him and I wasn’t there.
    I stopped a short way down the street at the first telephone booth I came to.
    It sat on the corner, just outside the Rexall