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“Wait, all these shops have candlesticks.”
    A match flared again, and Carrie gasped before she could stop herself. There was another person in the shop, a large man, lying on the floor. Even in the dim match flame she saw something shiny enough to reflect light. Scissors. It was a pair of scissors, or at least their handles. The rest of the scissors were out of sight because they were in the man’s chest. The dark places...that would be blood.
    The light brightened. Tracy had found the candlestick.
    The two women stared at each other over the shuddering flame. For a moment, Tracy returned Carrie’s unblinking gaze, then wet streaks dripped down her cheeks as, once more, she began to cry. Carrie got to her feet and reached out to touch the young woman’s shoulder before she turned to inspect the man on the floor.
    She shut her eyes. Swallowed. Swallowed again. Steady, she thought, steady. You’ve faced violent death before. When Amos died, the gunshot wound was uglier than this. Blood spattered everywhere then...no, don’t think about it. You’re strong, as strong as you need to be for this moment.
    She could look. She had to. Oh. Oh, yes, certainly things had been worse when Amos died. Blood had simply flowed here, wetting the bright blue shirt and concrete floor.
    She bent, felt for a pulse, listened for breathing. The man’s skin was warm and soft, but she couldn’t detect any heart beat, and his open eyes looked frozen. The broad chest was still, and no new blood came from the wound.
    The light had been shaking in Tracy’s hand, but now it steadied. She’d put the candlestick on a stool.
    Carrie examined the room. She saw lace in glass cases, bolts of cloth stacked on tables, stiff dress forms displaying Ozarks mountain styles. Long dresses. Aprons. Bonnets. Old-fashioned treadle sewing machine. She peered behind the counter and checked inside the single dressing room. No one else was in the shop.
    She went to the door, shut it, and turned to study Tracy in the candlelight.
    No. Impossible. This woman couldn’t have inflicted such a wound. The man was tall, and, even in death, the muscles in the arms and chest under his blue shirt looked powerful. Tracy wasn’t any taller than Carrie. She’d have had to raise her arm, aim the blow. She was so tiny, so thin. The wound was in front; the man would have seen her. He could have stopped her easily with one hand.
    No, not Tracy.
    While Carrie was trying to sort out her thoughts, Tracy began swaying back and forth, crooning, “Dear God...make this go away...forgive me...no, oh, no... noooo.”
    Her words sounded like both a prayer and a cry of the most wretched despair ever heard. She was swaying so far it looked like she was about to topple over, so Carrie reached out and pulled the young woman into her arms. Seeing nothing to sit on but the stool that held the candlestick, she sank to the floor, still holding Tracy, pulling her into her lap like a small child. For a long time they huddled on the floor together while Carrie stroked and patted, murmuring the familiar mother-words, “There-there now, there-there.” At last the sobs faded to low moans, and it was time to decide what to do next.
    She still hadn’t figured that out when Tracy stopped moaning, sniffed, and slid out of Carrie’s lap to sit next to her. She took out the cloth hanky that had been part of a perky stage costume only an hour earlier and blew her nose. The emotions and questions on her face were as clear as if she’d spoken aloud.
    She’s deciding whether or not to trust me, Carrie thought.
    But something needed to be done at once. There wasn’t time to wait for trust. Carrie began speaking softly, her words coming easily now.
    “Do you know who this man is?”
    “F-Farel. My cousin, Farel Teal.”
    She had expected the answer but, because of Dulcey, had hoped her guess was wrong.
    “How did you find him? Why is he here?” While Carrie waited for a reply, she remembered Tracy’s