A football lamp, a computer and piles of paperwork sat on a gray metal desk shoved in a corner. Above it hung a picture of Leo and several other men beside what she thought was a 747 aircraft, reminding her he worked at the airport as a mechanic.

And against the side wall stood a big, orange-doored gun safe.

Pumping off waves of heat and resentment, Leo marched to the safe, spun the dial for the combination, wrenched it open.

DiCicco had no problems with guns; in fact she believed in them. But the small arsenal inside the safe had her eyes widening. Rifles, shotguns, handguns—bolt action, semiauto, revolvers, under and overs, scopes. All showing the gloss of the well-cleaned, well-oiled, well-tended weapon.

But her scan didn’t turn up the weapon in question, and her hand edged toward her own as Leo Brakeman’s breathing went short and quick.

“You have an excellent collection of firearms, Mr. Brakeman, but you seem to be missing a Remington 700.”

“Somebody stole it.”

Her hand closed over the butt of her weapon when he whirled around, his face red, his fists clenched.

“Somebody broke in here and stole it.”

“There’s no record of you reporting a break-in.” Quinniock stepped up.

“Because I didn’t know. Somebody’s doing this to us. You have to find out who’s doing this to us.”

“Mr. Brakeman, you’re going to have to come with us now.” She didn’t want to draw on the man, hoped she wouldn’t have to, but DiCicco readied to do so.

“You’re not taking me out of my home.”

“Leo.” Quinniock spoke calmly. “Don’t make it worse now. You come quietly, and we’ll go in and talk about this. Or I’m going to have to cuff you and take you in forcibly.”

“Leo.” Irene simply collapsed onto a step. “My God, Leo.”

“I didn’t do anything. Irene, as God is my witness. I’ve never lied to you in my life, Reenie. I didn’t do anything.”

“Then let’s go in and talk this out.” Quinniock moved a step closer, laid a hand on Leo’s quivering shoulder. “Let’s try to get to the bottom of it.”

“Somebody’s doing this to us. I never shot at anybody out at the base, or anywhere else.” He jerked away from Quinniock’s hand. “I’ll walk out on my own.”

“All right, Leo. That would be best.”

Stiff-legged, he walked toward the steps. He stopped, reached for his wife’s hands. “Irene, on my life, I didn’t shoot at anybody. I need you to believe me.”

“I believe you.” But she dropped her gaze when she said it.

“You need to lock up now. You be sure to lock up the house. I’ll be home as soon as we straighten this out.”

Rowan got the word when she slipped into the cookhouse kitchen the next morning.

Lynn set down the hot bin of pancakes she carried, then wrapped Rowan in a hug. “I’m glad you’re all right. I’m glad everybody’s all right.”

“Me too.”

“I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what to say.” Shaking her head, she picked up the bin again. “I have to get these on the buffet.”

At the stove, Marg scooped bacon from the grill, set it aside to drain before shifting over to pour a glass of juice. She held it out to Rowan. “Drink what’s good for you,” she ordered, then turned back to pull a batch of fresh biscuits from the oven. “They picked up Leo Brakeman last night.”

Rowan drank the juice. “Do you know what he’s saying?”

“I don’t know a lot, but I know they talked to him for a long time last night, and they’re holding him. I know he’s saying he didn’t do it. I’m feeling like Lynn. I don’t know what to think.”

“I think it was stupid to leave the rifle. Then again, the cops would do their CSI thing since they found at least one of the bullets. Then again, with his skill, at that range, he could’ve put all three of them into me.”

“Don’t say that.”

At the crack of Marg’s voice, Rowan walked over, rubbed a hand down Marg’s back. “He didn’t, so I can come in here and drink a juice combo of carrots, apples, pears and parsnips.”

“You missed the beets.”

“So that’s what that was. They’re better in juice than on a plate.”

Marg moved aside to take a carton of eggs out of the refrigerator. “Go on in and eat your breakfast. I’ve got hungry mouths to feed.”

“I wanted to ask you. I wanted to ask both of you,” she said when Lynn came back with another empty tub. “Was Dolly seeing someone? Did she say anything about being involved?”

“She knew better than to start that business up around me,” Marg began, “when she kept saying how she was next thing to a grieving widow, and finding her comfort in God and her baby. But I doubt she stepped outside on a break to giggle on her cell phone because she’d called Dial-A-Joke.”

“She didn’t tell me anything, not directly,” Lynn put in. “But she said, a couple of times, how lucky I was to have a daddy for my kids, and how she knew her baby needed one, too. She said she spent a lot of time praying on it, and had faith God would provide.”

Lynn shifted, obviously uncomfortable. “I don’t like talking about her this way, but the thing is, she was a little sly when she said it, you know? And I thought, well, she’s already got her eye on a candidate. It wasn’t very nice of me, but it’s what I thought.”

“Did you tell the cops?”

“They just asked if she had a boyfriend, and like that. I told them I didn’t know of anybody. I wouldn’t have felt right telling them I thought she was looking for one. Do you think I should have?”

“You told them what you knew. I think I’m going to go get in my run, work up an appetite.” She saw Lynn bite her lip. “The cops have the rifle, and they have Brakeman. I can’t spend my life indoors. I’ll be back with an appetite.”

She walked outside. The shudder that went through her as she glanced toward the trees only stiffened her spine. She couldn’t live her life worried she had a target on her back. She put on the sunglasses—the ones Cards found where Gull had tackled her—and started the walk toward the track.