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“How?”
    â€œWe go into that hearing in a little while and contest the proceedings. That’s basically saying that Heather is innocent of the charges and that we will not waive extradition.”
    Heather made a frightened sound. Micah verbalized the source of her fear. “Extradition?”
    â€œIf we were to waive it,” Cassie explained, “she would be immediately taken to California to answer the charges they’ve lodged.”
    â€œWould that be admitting she is Lisa Matlock?”
    â€œNo. It would be saying that we’ll let the courts there prove that along with the other charges.”
    â€œSince she isn’t Lisa Matlock, the charges don’t apply.”
    â€œRight, but what I think and what you think and what she says is one thing. What the people in California think is apparently something else.”
    â€œWell, they’re wrong. I want the charges dropped.”
    Cassie smiled sadly. “If it were as easy as that, I wouldn’t have much work. Our system of criminal justice functions in roundabout ways.”
    â€œInnocent until proven guilty,” Micah reminded her.
    Cassie hesitated several seconds too long. “Not always,” she said, shaking her head.
    With those words, Micah had the awful fear that the trouble was just beginning.

    * * *
Poppy had no calls to take for a while, which was typical of a Lake Henry morning in winter. During other seasons, when fine weather beckoned, people were out and about doing whatever tickled their fancy. Rainy days, snowy days, cold days tended to keep them at home. They were answering their own phones. They were reading the paper, cleaning up breakfast, stacking wood, hacking ice from the eaves, and if not that, they were starting to think about getting geared up to settle down to work in the easygoing way that Lake Henryites had.
    She built the fire in the stone hearth to a blaze, made a pot of coffee, and sat back with a steaming mug of it to look at the lake, all the while wondering where Heather was, and what she was doing—and it wasn’t just a nominal interest. Poppy had other friends she’d known longer than Heather, but Heather was the one she liked best. She felt closest to Heather, had from the first time they met. Poppy had been a sophomore at the state university, and Heather, who spent her work week inside at Charlie’s, loved the great outdoors. Each weekend, a group of them went mountain climbing, and though Poppy had more in common with the college students in the bunch, Heather was the one she talked with the most.
    Thinking back, Poppy realized that she had done most of the talking. Heather was a good listener, and Poppy, who felt constrained by the town in general, and her family in particular, had needed to vent. Then Poppy’s accident happened, and, through the nightmare of recovery, Heather had been there for her. She seemed to know what to do without being told. She didn’t dole out pity or offer patronizing words of solace. Her underlying attitude was to accept what had happened and move on. That quiet approach had been a relief.
    Poppy was thinking about that quietness—about listening rather than talking, and whether there had been a reason for it that went beyond Heather’s basic nature—when a light blinked on the phone bank before her. Pushing that unsettling thought from her mind, she put on her headset, pressed the appropriate button, and said, “Lake Henry Library.”
    â€œLeila Higgins, please,” said an unfamiliar woman.
    â€œI’m sorry. The library doesn’t open until noon on Wednesdays. Who’s calling?”
    â€œThis is Aileen Miller. I’m with the Washington Post. I understand that Heather Malone worked at the library. I was looking for a comment from Ms. Higgins.”
    Poppy was dismayed, but not unprepared. When it came to handling the media, she had gone through trial by fire the fall before. Now she