Angels Fall

thinks it was a couple of people who robbed a bank or something, then had a falling-out, so he killed her and now he's got all the money."
    "Good a theory as any."
    Lowering her brush, she leaned on the ladder. "'But I think they were having this adulterous fling and ran away together. Then she changed her mind and wanted to go back to her husband and kids, so he killed her in the heat of passion."
    "Sounds good, too. Weighed the body down, then crammed it into an old beaver lodge."
    "Oh, that's just awful , Lo. Worse than burying her out there."
    "Probably didn't do that anyway." He leaned on the ladder as well. He could smell the paint, but standing this close, he could smell whatever she rubbed on her skin right along with it. "Have to know where to find an old beaver lodge, wouldn't he? And they couldn't have been from around here. Any way you slice it, he's long gone by now."
    "I guess. Doesn't make it any better for Reece." She went back to painting, and the way he was standing, her cute butt was right at eye level.
    A man only had to lean in a couple of inches to—
    "I guess you're going to go by, see her."
    "Who?" He blinked himself clear. "Oh, Reece. I don't know. I thought I might, if you wanted to go with me."
    "Your ma told me not to pester Reece today. Besides. I've got this started. I need to finish it."
    "Take you half the day the way you're going."
    She looked over her shoulder. "I've got another brush, smart guy. You could do something useful instead of standing around posing."
    "It's my day off."
    "Mine, too."
    "Shit." Damned if he wanted to paint stupid shutters. But he couldn't think of anywhere else to go, anything else to do. "Guess I could give you a hand." He reached down for a brush that still had the mercantile's price sticker on the handle. "Maybe, if we get this done before next Tuesday, we could drive out to the ranch. I could saddle us up a couple of horses. Nice day for a ride."
    Linda-gail smiled to herself as she painted. "Maybe. It is a pretty nice day.

DETOURS
    Pain has an element of blank; It cannot recollect When it begun, or if there were A day when it was not —
    ——EMILY DICKINSON
    Chapter 11
     
    REECE HAD TO DASH upstairs on her next break. Using the key Mac had dropped off at Joanie's, she unlocked the new, sturdy dead bolt.
    Just hearing the sharp click made her feel better. She tested it a couple of times, then let out a sigh of relief.
    But she had to hurry, she reminded herself, get the marinade made and the roast in it so she could zip back downstairs and finish her shift.
    She found a note on her counter from Mac, written in his clear and careful hand, and held in place by the corner of the new roasting pan she'd had on her list.
     
    Went ahead and put the groceries away for you, didn't want to leave the perishables out. Started a tab for you, so you can settle up with me at the end of the month. You enjoy your dinner. Me, I'm looking forward to those leftovers. M.D.
     
    What a sweetie, she thought, and wondered idly why some smart woman hadn't snapped him up.
    She got what she needed from the refrigerator, from the cupboard, then opened the cabinet below the counter for the mixing bowl.
    It wasn't there. None of her bowls were there. In their place were her hiking boots and backpack.
    She went down, slowly, to her knees.
    She hadn't put them there, she hadn't. Her boots and the pack belonged in the little closet. Carefully, as if defusing a bomb, she drew them out, studied them. She unzipped the pack, found her spare water bottle, her compass, her penknife, the moleskin, the sunscreen. Everything just where it belonged.
    Trembling a little, she carried them to the closet. And there were the mixing bowls, sitting on the shelf above the hangers.
    It didn't mean anything, she told herself. A moment of absentmind-edness, that was all. Anyone might make such a silly mistake. Anyone at all.
    She set the boots on the floor, hung the pack on the hook she used for it. And could see herself doing exactly what she'd done when she returned from going out to the river with Brody: Even before she took the aspirin, before she ran her bath, she took off her boots, put them and her pack in the closet.
    She would swear she did.
    And the bowls. Why would she have moved them in the first place?
    But she must have. The way she must have marked up the map. Just blanking it out. Lost time, she thought, resting her forehead on the closet door. She didn't want to believe she was