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have in the hedge.”
    “It’ll be fine,” Tara assured me. “I’ll do the talking. You just need to sit there and look beautiful. Although,” Tara looked me up and down, “you might have driven so you would have avoided the inevitable dusty shin syndrome you get when you ride on that old dirt trail.”
    I looked down. Tara was right; from my knees down, my legs were covered with a thin layer of silt. “It was such a nice day,” I explained.
    Tara wiped cat hair from the shoulder of my blouse. My clothes are always covered in cat hair—an occupational hazard from running a cat sanctuary, I suppose.
    “Run this through your hair.” Tara handed me a brush.
    I did as instructed and then turned around for inspection. “Better?”
    “Marginally.” She looked me over, biting her lip, as if trying to decide if there was anything else to be done. “What’s wrong with your neck?”
    I scratched the right side just under my ear. “Just a little itch. It’ll be fine. Let’s get this over with.”
    Luckily, Mr. Bradford didn’t keep us waiting. We were shown into his office and instructed to take seats across from his desk. I tried to make my way across the room, sit down where I was told, and avoid tripping, all while never looking up or making eye contact of any type.
    “Ms. O’Brian, Ms. Hart, thank you for coming in today,” Mr. Bradford began. “I wasn’t certain you’d make it after the incident this morning.”
    “There didn’t seem to be any more we could do at this point,” Tara said. “I imagine you’ve been interviewed by the sheriff’s office?”
    “I just finished up with them. The building has been cordoned off for now, but I’ve been assured that once the investigation has been completed I’ll be free to sell the space as planned. My question to you now is whether you’re still interested.”
    “We are,” Tara answered for both of us. “Did the sheriff give you an idea of when they might complete their investigation?”
    “He wouldn’t say. I suppose it depends on how long it takes to figure out who killed the guy.”
    “I understand. We’re still interested,” Tara repeated.
    “Very well, then. Let’s discuss the funding you propose.”
    I tuned out while Tara droned on about the estimated cost to complete the remodel and the projected cost to maintain the facility once it opened. I’d always been good in math and had helped to develop the projections, but I have a curious mind that’s easily distracted and tends not to want to focus on any one thing for too long.
    The warmer weather served as a reminder of the busy summer season that was just around the corner. Living on the island was like living in two completely different cultures at the same time. During the off-season, which spanned October through May, there were very few visitors, and many of the touristy type shops on the island shut down for the season. I enjoyed that time of the year, when the pace was slower and good friends could gather for a meal and not have to compete with guests from the mainland for a table near the window of restaurants.
    And then there was the summer season, when the population of the island nearly tripled on the weekends. Businesses that had been closed since October began to open and seasonal workers began to arrive. With the arrival of the masses came a certain energy that felt akin to the island coming to life after a long and peaceful hibernation. Most years by the end of the summer I was ready for the slower pace of winter, and likewise, most winters when spring arrived I was ready for the energy of summer.
    Tara nudged my leg, which brought me back to the conversation going on around me. “I guess that’s true,” she was admitting. “Might I ask . . .”
    Tara’s words were cut off by the ringing of the phone on Mr. Bradford’s desk.
    “I’m sorry; I really need to take this,” Bradford said.
    “Certainly. No problem,” Tara assured him.
    I sat up a bit straighter while