Gingerbread Man

to agree with you there," Ernie said. "You know, even though it was Holly with the symptoms, Doris went through hell, too. They've been doing well up to now. I'd hate to see anything undo all the progress they've made."
    "They've really put it back together since they moved out here," Marty added. "And Jen loves having them so close. It's been good for them."
    "I agree," Chief Mallory said. "Look, I'll have a talk with O'Mally. See if I can make him see reason. For what it's worth, Doris still doesn't know his real reason for being in town. I'd prefer to keep it that way."
    "And what about Holly?" Ernie asked. "Does she know?"
    "Yeah. Found out last night," Jim told them.
    "Son of a—"
    Ernie clapped Marty on the shoulder. "Don't worry. We'll help her through this."
    Marty nodded, clasped his beer bottle by its neck and took another long pull. Then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Thanks for keeping us informed, Jim."
    "It's the least I could do. You're her uncle, Marty. The closest thing she has to a dad. Ernie's her doctor, and I'm her employer—and in love with her mother, besides. It's up to us to protect those two, the way I see it. This meeting stays between us. Agreed?"
    "Agreed," the other two said in unison.
    Jim nodded. "Good. Good."
    * * *
    HOLLY SLEPT ONLY sporadically, even though she knew Vince's theory was so much hot air, without a shred of truth to it, she couldn't stop thinking about it. What if, somehow, he was right? What if the man who'd confessed to killing Ivy had been lying?
    But why? Why would anyone admit to murder if he hadn't done it? Who did something like that?
    If there was even the slightest chance ...
    But, no. There was no motive. No way. Now that he knew his theory was an impossibility, Vince would pack up his envelope full of information about her and the darkest night of her soul, and go on back to the city.
    She wondered why that thought brought with it a twinge of what felt like regret. Maybe, she told herself, it was simply that she sensed in him a man who didn't look at her the way everyone else in her life looked at her. He didn't see her as weak or fragile. He'd told her as much. And there was something else about him, too. Something that tugged at her. She was drawn to him in spite of herself, though it irked her to admit her mother had seen it before she had. She knew it when she woke up, rolled over in her bed, and found her face near his jacket, smelling his scent. He'd left it hanging on the bedpost. It made something tighten and yearn deep in the pit of her belly.
    That part of this situation would best be set aside for now, she decided. She had more than enough to contend with.
    The one thing that kept standing out was Vince's cockeyed theory that the wrong man was doing time for Ivy's murder. She couldn't just dismiss it. She had to know.
    Holly sat up in bed. She had to know.
    It was Sunday morning, clear and cold. No alarm clock went off on Sunday mornings. Its routine was different, though every bit as predictable. Holly and Doris slept as late as they wanted to on Sundays, then sipped coffee in the sunroom in their nightclothes, lounging lazily and catching up. After that, and only after that, they would shower and dress. At that point, the rest of Holly's routine was done with military precision. Lay out the clothes, shower, shave her legs, shampoo, always in the same order. She took more time with herself on Sundays, pampering her skin and doing her nails.
    This morning she did none of those things.
    Holly got out of bed, showered, and dressed immediately, even though it meant skipping several parts of the usual routine. It made her uneasy, gave her an insecure feeling, like walking on thin ice. But she had to see Vince before he left town. She had to get to the truth. Because if there was even the slightest chance that the man who'd murdered her baby sister was still free, then all the routines in the world were not going to do Holly one bit of good.
    She had to know it wasn't true. That it was impossible, just as she had insisted it was.
    She left her mom a hastily scrawled note on top of the coffee pot, and walked along the lakefront road to Vince's cabin. It was cool this morning. Only in the high forties, she guessed, as she hugged her jacket around her body, Vince's clasped in her arms, and gave thanks that she'd worn a woolly sweater underneath. She should have added a hat. But the sky was clear, promising a warmer day later on. A few