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was taking longer than expected. He looked around the property and told Officer Norton to make sure the area was secure and that the body in the barn didn’t need assistance.
    As he made his way toward the porch, Sam looked only at me. His armor was his serious demeanor, but the chink in it at the moment was concern. He was concerned about me. We’d become good friends over the past year that he’d been a Monson police officer. Our friendship had been the result of him officially investigating crimes that I had been compelled to unofficially investigate. We’d been in some hairy situations together, and those situations had only helped build the friendship, or the bond, or whatever it was.
    “Sam,” Ian said, pulling Sam’s intent gaze from my face to his.
    “Ian.” Sam stopped and rubbed his finger under his nose.
    Sam Brion was the picture of “professional.” When he was in his work mode, his hair was slicked back and his uniform was afraid to show a wrinkle. He didn’t sweat under any sort of pressure, and his blue eyes could either be stern or friendly, but they always held a sort of fierceness. I knew both the official Sam and the one who could relax, from his hair to his toes, and have a good time.
    “I need to talk to each of you separately. Mrs. Robins?” He looked at Mom. “I’d like to talk to you first.”
    She nodded.
    “Are you hurt?” he asked.
    “No, I don’t think so. My head is a little sore, but I’m not dizzy. The blood isn’t mine, I don’t think.”
    I wanted to cry.
    “An ambulance is on the way, but for now Becca and Ian, how about you pull the tailgate of one of your trucks down and sit there?”
    “Sam, my mom didn’t hurt anyone,” I said.
    The pain in his eyes was as real as the fierceness. He didn’t want his friend’s mother guilty of a crime, particularly such a horrible one.
    “Becca, I need to talk to your mom first. Please, you and Ian step away.”
    “It’s okay, dear. I want to talk to him. I really need to know what happened, too,” Mom said.
    “Should we call an attorney?” I asked her.
    “Not yet. Let me talk to the police officer, Becca. I’ll let you know if I want an attorney.”
    Mom had been arrested before. She had a record—of peaceful protests. When they were younger, she and my father had protested everything from war to pesticides. But, as far as I knew, they hadn’t been “detained” in some time. I didn’t think anyone should talk to the police without an attorney present, but if anyone knew the ropes, my mother did, and I had to believe that she’d request an attorney the second she thought she needed one.
    The ambulance pulled into the driveway and parked behind Sam’s car just as Officer Norton exited the barn. She glanced at Sam and shook her head. Sam must have communicated something with a nod, because she pulled out her cell phone and proceeded to make a call.
    “Ian, Becca, please,” Sam said.
    Ian helped me stand, and we made our way to his truck. He helped me up to the tailgate as Hobbit lay down on the ground under my feet.
    “You okay?” Ian asked as he held my chin and examined my face.
    “Uh-huh,” I said halfheartedly as I looked into his concerned brown eyes. “I’m fine physically. I’m scared, Ian.”
    “That’s to be expected. You want to tell me what happened?”
    I nodded. I did want to tell him, but I didn’t want to say the words out loud.
    Nevertheless, I recounted my day, beginning with the early morning visit from Joan and the other board members. I thought hard about each detail I mentioned, hoping I’d see something that would illuminate who the killer might have been, because I couldn’t possibly believe that my mother was involved.
    As I spoke, I also observed the scene around us with a detached sense of dread. Sam sat next to my mom, and it looked as though the two of them could be chatting over irrigation issues instead of the blood all over her hands. Officer Norton had taken charge of