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was. I told him any records we might have dating back that far would be in the basement, but he just wouldn’t give up. I didn’t like him. He was pushy, that fellow.”
    “Back how far, Maddie?” Chief Mallory asked.
    “Oh, near to twenty years. Said the date due stamped on the book was nineteen eighty-three, for heaven’s sake.”
    Mallory nodded. “I’ll tell you what, Maddie. How about you let me come on over and take a look through those files in the basement, hmm? See if I can figure out what this pushy young fellow is looking for.”
    “Well, if you think it’s important, Chief.”
    “I do. And Maddie?”
    “Yes?”
    “Let’s just keep this between you and me for right now. All right?”

    T HE WIND OFF THE LAKE HAD KICKED UP during the morning, and it didn’t seem too eager to let up. When Holly walked the fifty-three steps from the police station to the Paradise Café, she had to tug her denim jacket’s collar up, and bow her head. Leaves flew like flocks of brittle birds, and the air was heavy with unshed rain. Holly walked into the café at one minute past twelve, closed the door against the wind, and reached up absently to finger comb her hair. A leaf drifted loose and floated to the floor, landing squarely in the middle of one of the neat square tiles. For a moment her gaze remained on the floor, its perfect checkerboard pattern, straight, predictable lines, square corners.
    Glancing up, she saw her mother sitting at their usual booth, and waved to her as she started across the red-and-white tiled floor. She felt out of sorts and distracted. Even after Vince O’Mally had left the station this morning, her routine had never really fallen into place again. She’d answered the phones, filled out forms, paid bills, done some filing—all the usual things, but she’d done them with the feeling that something was off. She was running behind. Her pattern, broken. And she kept wishing she could undo the day and start it over again, the way she could have done with a row of knitting. Just take the end of the yam and pull it all out, all the way back to the spot where the pattern had become altered—then start over again from there.
    If she could do that, though, she’d pull that thread all the way back to October 10, 1983. Start that day over.
    She forced herself not to think about that. Things were off today. And there was a niggling in the back of her mind, but she was ignoring that, as well. She was very good at ignoring things. It only took concentration. She’d had lots of practice.
    “Honey?”
    She looked up, realizing she had walked all the way across the diner to the table where her mother waited, and shaking herself, she managed a smile as she slid into the booth. “Hi, Mom. How did your morning go?”
    “Holly... honey, are you all right?”
    Startled, she searched her mother’s face. “Of course I am. Why would you think otherwise?”
    “Well...” She reached across the table, covered Holly’s hands with her own. “You were counting just now.”
    Holly rolled her eyes. “Oh, I was not.”
    “You were. You were counting as you crossed the room. Your steps, I think. Very quietly. Sweetheart, did something happen this morning?”
    Holly tensed and gazed around the diner, wondering if anyone else had noticed her odd behavior. Counting. Dammit, she had stopped counting years ago.
    Oh, hell. He was here, sitting on a red vinyl-topped stool at the counter, and watching her. He lifted a hand in greeting. She pursed her lips, nodded hello, and looked away.
    “Should I make an appointment with Dr. Graycloud?” her mother asked.
    Holly bit her lip, swallowed her anxiety, and turned back to her mother with a forced smile. “I was thinking about floor tiles for the dining room,” she said. “Like these—different colors, of course—but the texture and the quality of these are just what I had in mind.”
    “Floor tiles.” The words were heavy with doubt.
    “Uh-huh. I was thinking