Page 112 of The Burning

“Speaking of his cell phone,” I say, “I think Hofer is the one who called in the anonymous tip about seeing Jacob on Dogleg Road the night of the murder.”

“We’ll check it out.” Rasmussen nods, looks from me to Tomasetti and back to me. “For now, I’ve got to get back to the scene. I’m glad you two are all right.” He motions toward Tomasetti’s injured arm. “Get yourself patched up, Agent Tomasetti, and we’ll get the rest of this figured out in the coming days.”

“I’d appreciate it if you’d keep me posted on any new developments,” I tell them.

Chambers looks at me over his shoulder. “You got it, Chief Burkholder,” he says.

And then they’re gone.

EPILOGUE

It’s the little things we sometimes don’t notice that add that extra layer of richness to our lives. As the years make their indelible mark, those small gifts become even more meaningful. Time can take a toll if you let it. If you’re wise, you’ll embrace the good, forgive yourself for yesterday’s mistakes, and keep your heart open for all those delicious little extras that come your way.

It’s six P.M. and already fully dark when I close the back door against the gale and a flurry of snow. Outside, the blizzard is just getting started and I’m unduly glad to be out of the maelstrom. I hang my parka in the mudroom and take in the aromas of yeast bread and woodsmoke as I enter my big farmhouse kitchen. Tomasetti stands at the counter with his back to me, one-handedly slicing the bread I took out of the oven an hour earlier. On the counter, I see he’s arranged grapes and thin-sliced beef around a wedge of the Stilton blue cheese we picked up at the Amish shop in town earlier. Next to the board, the bottle of tempranillo is breathing, two wineglasses waiting to be filled. I can hear the fire crackling from the hearth in the living room. Norah Jones warms the air with the whiskey magic of her voice.

The little things, I think, even though I’m all too aware that there’s nothing small about this particular moment and I count my blessings.

“Anyone ever tell you you look good in my apron?” I say, coming up behind him.

“I get that a lot.” He glances at me over his shoulder and winks. “Goats and chickens secure for the night?”

“The babies weren’t too happy about being penned up, but they’ll be thanking me in a few hours when the drifts are two feet high.”

Frowning, he concentrates on the bread. Holding it in place with the elbow of his arm sling, he saws off a slice. “Caught the weather a few minutes ago,” he says.

“I’m afraid to ask.”

“The bad news is we’re going to get six inches of snow and forty-mile-per-hour winds.”

“And the good news?” I ask.

“We’re going to get six inches of snow and forty-mile-per-hour winds.” He looks at me at grins. “That’s not to mention the lights have been blinking.”

“I noticed.” I snatch up a grape and pop it in my mouth. “Good thing we’ve got plenty of candles.”

“Not to mention a roaring fire and an extra bottle of tempranillo.”

“Might be a two-glass night.”

I reach around him to hold the loaf in place so he can more easily slice. “Norah Jones is a nice touch, Tomasetti.”

“I thought so,” he says. “Not that I have an ulterior motive.”

“Good thing because I’m not sure you can handle it with that cast and sling.”

“I’m game to put it to the test if you are.”

“Those are big words for a one-armed man.”

Setting down the knife, he turns to me, wraps his uninjured arm around me, and gazes into my eyes, his expression turning thoughtful. “You had a nightmare last night.”

“I didn’t mean to wake you.” I try to divert our attention back to the food, but he doesn’t let me.

Tomasetti isn’t one to dwell on or rehash a traumatic event. We’re alike that way. We’ve seen more than our share, and we know life’s too short to spend it being afraid. And so we deal with it, we put it to bed, and we move on.

“Despite what others might say,” he says, “I’m a pretty good listener if you want to talk about it.”

Needing a moment, I ease away from him, go to the bottle of wine and pour. Tomasetti picks up the charcuterie board and we carry everything to the table. He’s already lit a candle.