Chapter 3

The funeral was three days later.

Small. Quiet. The kind of service where everyone kept their distance, like death might be contagious.

Dad didn't have many friends. Most of the ranchers in the area knew him, sure, but they didn't like him. He was hard to work with. Quick to anger. The kind of man who'd argue over fence lines and water rights until you'd rather just walk away.

Jolene's family hadn't spoken to her since she married him. Her mother had called once, years ago, told her she was making a mistake. Jolene hung up and never called back.

So the crowd at the cemetery was small. A handful of neighbors who came out of obligation. Pete, who stood in the back with his hat in his hands. Dad's lawyer. A few people from town whose names I didn't know.

I wore a black dress I'd bought at the Goodwill. It was too big in the shoulders and too tight at the waist, but it was cheap and it was black and that was all that mattered.

I stood by the graves and listened to the pastor talk about ashes and dust and eternal rest. The words washed over me like rain. I didn't hear them. Didn't need to.

The wind was cold. It pulled at my hair and made my eyes water. People probably thought I was crying.

I wasn't.

When the service ended, people came up to shake my hand. Said things like "I'm so sorry" and "Such a tragedy" and "If there's anything you need."

I nodded. Said thank you. Watched them leave.

Grace Harlow stood at the back of the crowd the whole time. I'd seen her when I arrived, her uniform crisp and dark against the gray sky. She didn't come forward during the service. Didn't say anything. Just stood there, watching.

When everyone else was gone, she walked over.

"Rowan."

"Sheriff."

She stopped a few feet away. Close enough to talk. Far enough to give me space.

"How are you holding up?"

"Fine," I said.

"That's not what I asked."

I looked at her. Her face was hard to read. Not unfriendly, but not warm either. Professional. Like she was trying to figure out if I was a victim or a suspect.

Maybe both.

"I'm managing," I said.

Grace nodded. Glanced at the graves. Fresh dirt piled over them, flowers already wilting in the wind.

"Three deaths in three weeks," she said. "That's a lot for anyone to handle."

"It is."

"Especially when you're seventeen."

I didn't answer. Didn't know what she wanted me to say.

Grace looked back at me. Her eyes were sharp. Patient. The kind of eyes that could wait all day for you to slip up.

"I need to talk to you," she said.

"You already did. Twice."

"I know. But I have more questions."

My jaw tightened. "The case is closed. Colt's death was ruled an accident. The fire was ruled an accident. What else is there to talk about?"

"Three accidents in one family," Grace said. "That's a hell of a coincidence."

"Life's full of them."

She tilted her head. "You know what I've learned in this job? There's no such thing as coincidence. Just patterns people don't want to see."

I crossed my arms. The wind cut through my dress, cold against my skin. "What pattern do you see, Sheriff?"

Grace was quiet for a moment. Then she said, "A girl who didn't fit. A father who remarried too fast. A stepmother who resented her. A little boy who had everything she didn't."

She paused. Let the words hang in the air.

"And now?" she said. "Now she has it all."

Something hot flared in my chest. Anger, maybe. Or fear. I couldn't tell the difference anymore.

"If you think I did something," I said, my voice low, "then arrest me."

"I can't," Grace said simply. "No evidence. Just instinct."

"Instinct isn't enough to put someone in jail."

"No," she admitted. "But it's enough to keep asking questions."

We stood there, facing each other. The cemetery was empty now. Just us and the graves and the wind whistling through the iron gates.

I wanted to tell her to leave me alone. To stop looking at me like I was a puzzle she needed to solve. To let me bury my family and move on.

But I knew she wouldn't. Grace Harlow wasn't the type to let things go.

Finally, she sighed. Pulled a card from her pocket and held it out.

"There's a diner on Route 14," she said. "Let's talk over lunch. Off the record."

I looked at the card. Didn't take it.

"Why?"

"Because I think there's more to this story," Grace said. "And I think you know what it is."

"I already told you everything."

"Maybe," she said. "But I'd like to hear it again. Without the lawyers and the paperwork and the official statements."

She was still holding out the card. Waiting.

I could say no. Could tell her I had nothing more to say. Could walk away and go back to the ranch and never see her again except when she drove past on patrol.

But Grace wasn't going to stop. She'd keep digging. Keep asking. Keep watching.

Better to face her now. On my terms.

I took the card.

"When?"

"How about now?" Grace said. "Unless you have somewhere else to be."

I didn't. The ranch would still be there in an hour. The cattle would still need feeding. The barn would still be standing, empty and accusing.

"Fine," I said.

Grace nodded. "I'll drive."

"I have my truck."

"Then follow me."

She walked to her patrol car. Opened the door. Looked back at me over the roof.

"It's a good diner," she said. "Best coffee in the county. You look like you could use some."

I followed.