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like this, hungry and—well, I’m really beat. I didn’t sleep at all last night. I just hung around the bus depot until this morning. I can’t keep my eyes open.”
    “All right,” I said. “Why don’t you stretch out on the couch? I have things to take care of in my office.”
    We went to the living room, where he removed his sneakers before curling up on the couch.
    “I’ll wake you in an hour,” I said.
    “Thank you,” he said, closing his eyes and emitting a contented sigh.
    I watched him doze off almost immediately, and then I left the room and went to my home office. He had looked so peaceful, even angelic, lying there. At the same time, I was apprehensive. Although I had no reason to doubt that he was Marlise’s stepson, he was still a total stranger who, having enjoyed lunch in my kitchen, was now fast asleep on my couch. But I was happy that he’d needed a nap. I wanted time alone to sort things out. His unexpected arrival had happened so suddenly that I hadn’t had a chance to process what it meant.
    I sat in front of the computer, clicked on Google, typed in “Jonathon Simsbury murder,” and watched the search results appear on the screen. While the Associated Press piece had contained some information, the local papers gave a fuller account. Simsbury’s murder was big news in Chicago. He’d been an imposing figure in the city’s art scene, having donated millions of dollars to various artistic endeavors. A variety of photographs accompanied the articles, including a recent one of Marlise and Wayne. If I’d had any doubt that the young man resting on my couch was indeed Wayne Simsbury, the article’s photo of him put my mind to rest. Despite Marlise’s having aged, her youthful beauty still shone through. She seemed radiant in the photo, happy and at peace with the world as she stood with her arm around Wayne’s shoulders.
    According to the longest article, which appeared on the front page of the Tribune , the lead detective in the case acknowledged that the victim’s widow was considered a person of interest, but so were several others, and no formal charges had been filed. The detective viewed it as an open case with the investigation ongoing, and he pledged that the murder would be solved and the killer brought to justice.
    I looked for mentions of Wayne, who was cited only in passing. It had struck me that his stated reason for having left Chicago might not have represented the entire truth. If Marlise was considered a person of interest, it was likely that he was, too. I hated to think that he might have been his father’s killer, but that possibility lingered.
    I printed out a number of the articles, made a file folder for them, and returned to the living room, where Wayne still slept soundly. I thought about waking him but decided not to. Instead, I went back into my office and called our sheriff, Mort Metzger. I’m not a paranoid person, but I wanted someone to know that I had a visitor.
    “Hello, Mrs. F.,” he said. “Surprised to hear from you. Thought you were hibernating these days, working on your book.”
    “I have been hibernating, Mort, but I’ve taken a break. I’ve had a surprise visit from the stepson of an old friend. He’s in from Chicago, and I’m enjoying spending time with him. His name is Wayne Simsbury.”
    “Always nice to touch base with old friends,” he said. “He staying long?”
    “I’m not sure. I doubt it. Just wanted to say hello.”
    There was a pause on his end, probably because he found my call to be unusual.
    “Well, good to hear from you, Mrs. F. When you come up for air, Maureen and I would love to have you for dinner. Bring your friend along, too.”
    “Thanks, Mort. I may take you up on that.”
    I was about to see whether Wayne had awakened when the phone rang.
    “Jessica?”
    “Yes.”
    “Jessica, dear Jessica. It’s Marlise. Marlise Simsbury.”
    “Oh, my goodness! Marlise?”
    “I know. It’s been ages since we