The Witness

story. “It’s wonderful.”
    “I’ll give you the recipe.”
    “I’ve never made a pie. It’s just me. A pie doesn’t seem practical.”
    “There’s nothing practical about a pie. We’ll trade. I’ll give you the recipe for one of yours.”
    “I don’t know what you’d like.”
    “Surprise me.”
    After an internal debate, Abigail walked over to her laptop, called up her recipe file. She printed out her recipe for chicken paprika. “You can adjust the spices to taste.”
    “This looks great. I think I’ll stop at the market on the way home, pick up what I don’t have, and try this tonight. Here, let me write out the recipe for the pie.” She pulled a notebook and pen out of her purse.
    “You have it memorized?”
    “I’ve been making this pie for too many years to count. It’s Loren’s favorite.”
    “You smile when you say his name.”
    “Do I? We’ve been married—I count from the handfasting—for thirty-six years. He still makes me happy.”
    That, Abigail thought when she was alone again, was the most vital and compelling statement on a relationship. That happiness could last.
    She studied the recipe in her hand. She’d transcribe it onto the computer later. Dutifully, she gathered up the plates and cups, and with some surprise noticed the time.
    Somehow she’d just spent more than thirty minutes in her kitchen, having pie and coffee and fascinating conversation with a stranger.
    “I suppose that means she’s not a stranger now.”
    She couldn’t decide how it made her feel, couldn’t decipher it. She looked at her work, looked at her dog.
    “Hell. Let’s go for a walk.”
    “Y OU DID WHAT? ” Brooks gaped at his mother.
    “You heard me very well. I took a pie over to Abigail’s. We had a nice chat over pie and coffee. I like her.”
    “Ma—”
    “I think socially awkward’s a good term for it. She’s not shy, just rusty when it comes to interaction. Once we got going, we did just fine. We exchanged recipes.”
    “You …” At his desk, Brooks dropped his head in his hands. “Did you hear me last night?”
    “Of course I did.”
    “It may be she’s on the run. It may be she’s in trouble. It may be, if that trouble finds her, dangerous. And you just breeze on over with pie?”
    “Huckleberry. I had to make two so your father wouldn’t get his feelings hurt. She’s got a wonderful kitchen. And looking at the recipe she gave me, I’m betting she’s quite a cook. She also has cameras or some such thing set up all over the property. I saw on her computer screen. She has views of the drive, and the back and so on.”
    “Christ.”
    “She spoke French to the dog.”
    That had him lifting his head again. “What?”
    “I just wonder why somebody would teach their dog French, is all. She has very nice manners. She listens to you with her whole body. Something about her just pulled at me. I swear, I wanted to pet her like I did the dog.”
    “You … you petted that big-ass monster dog?”
    “She told it in French it was all right. He was very sweet. He’s devoted to her, I could see that. Never strayed more than two feet away. He’s a very good dog, and I’m sure a fine companion. But that girl needs a friend. Now, I’ve got to run by the store and pick up some things. I want to try this recipe she gave me.”
    “Ma, I don’t want you going over there until I know more.”
    “Brooks.”
    He was thirty-two years old, and that tone, that look, could still make his balls shrink to marbles.
    “You’re a grown man, but it still hasn’t come to the point where you tell me what to do. If you want to find out more about her, why don’t you go out there and be friendly, like I did?”
    “And take her pie?”
    “You might try a bottle of wine.”
    H E WENT WITH A NICE , mid-range pinot grigio. It seemed reasonable, friendly without too many overtones. It also seemed like it was overthinking the whole thing, so he stopped thinking and just drove out there.
    The rain that had blown in the night before teased out a little more green. Now, early-evening sun shimmered through those greening branches, splashed on the road, flickered on the busy water of the little stream that wound through.
    He bumped his way up her drive, caught a glimpse of the smoke curling out of her chimney.
    Then he saw her.
    She stood, the big dog at the heel of her knee-high black boots. She wore jeans, a black leather jacket, and a gun on her hip.
    He decided not to overthink the