Once again, we are strangers, bound together only by envelopes of cash and a Starbucks gift card, with which he buys coffee to signal when he wants to meet me.

The question still unsettles me when I later drive into town to pick up supplies. Who is asking for directions to my farm? The query could be perfectly innocent, asked by someone in search of the previous owner, unaware that the woman passed away three years ago at age eighty-eight. She was, by all accounts, legendary for her sharp wit and her bad

“What’d she do to you?” I pause, searching for words to describe how Diana lit the tinder that destroyed my career. My life. “She turned me into a traitor,” I say. The truth is far more complicated, but when you live in a world of mirrors, the truth is always distorted. Too often, it’s what we choose to see while ignoring all the inconvenient bits,

When I was twenty-five, I thought I’d never have to look at this version of my face. I had romantic notions of dying in action before wrinkles ever set in, but here I am, looking every bit my forty-two years of age. Living hard doesn’t mean dying early; sometimes it just means those hard years end up on your face.

Over the sixteen years since my retirement, I’ve slowly let down my guard. Now I’m so accustomed to being a small-town chicken farmer that I’ve started to believe that’s all I am. The way Ben’s just a retired salesman for hotel supplies, and Declan’s just a retired history professor. We know the truth, but we keep each other’s secrets, because we

“I’m wondering why you seem so calm about this. Why having a dead body in your driveway doesn’t seem to rattle you. It would freak out most people.” “At my age, Officer, nothing much freaks me out anymore.” One side of her mouth twitches up. She has a finely tuned bullshit meter, and it’s telling her I’m not giving her the whole story, but she’s

I don’t want him to show up at my hotel, nor do I want to be knocking at the door of his apartment, because both places present difficulties when it comes to a graceful escape. I am always about having a planned escape route, whether it’s from a firefight or a romantic evening, and a restaurant is a safe place to meet.

I think of the go bag next to my bed and how easy it would be to drop out, skip town, even skip the country. But this is my home now, and I’ve spent two years building this life, settling into its rhythms. I’m tired of moving, tired of searching for a landing spot. This is it. This is where the wandering stops.

Ben is studying me. Reading faces is a talent of his, and he must sense there’s a purpose to my joining them today. I wait until Janine is out of earshot before I ask the men my question.