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started it, she thought. Again. And he had stopped it. Again. She was sick and tired of being jolted along according to his whims.
    “You miss a lot that way, don’t you, Roman? A lot of warmth, a lot of joy.”
    “A lot of disappointment.”
    “Maybe. I guess it’s harder for some of us to live our lives aloof from others. But if that’s your choice, fine.” She drew in a deep breath. Her headache was coming back, doubled. “Don’t touch me again. I make it a habit to finish whatever I start.” She glanced into the room behind them. “You’re doing a nice job here,” she said briskly. “I’ll let you get back to it.”
    He cursed her as he sanded the wood for the window trim. She had no right to make him feel guilty just because he wanted to keep his distance. Noninvolvement wasn’t just a habit with him; it was a matter of survival. It was self-indulgent and dangerous to move forward every time you were attracted to a woman.
    But it was more than attraction, and it was certainly different from anything he’d felt before. Whenever he was near her, his purpose became clouded with fantasies of what it would be like to be with her, to hold her, to make love with her.
    And fantasies were all they were, he reminded himself. If things went well he would be gone in a matter of days. Before he was done he might very well destroy her life.
    It was his job, he reminded himself.
    He saw her, walking out to the van with those long, purposeful strides of hers, the keys jingling in her hand. Behind her were the newlyweds, holding hands, even though each was carrying a suitcase.
    She would be taking them to the ferry, he thought. That would give him an hour to search her rooms.
    He knew how to go through every inch of a room without leaving a trace. He concentrated first on the obvious—the desk in the small parlor. It was common for people to be careless in the privacy of their own homes. A slip of paper, a scribbled note, a name in an address book, were often left behind for the trained eye to spot.
    It was an old desk, solid mahogany with a few rings and scratches. Two of the brass pulls were loose. Like the rest of the room, it was neat and well organized. Her personal papers—insurance documents, bills, correspondence—were filed on the left. Inn business took up the three drawers on the right.
    He could see from a quick scan that the inn made a reasonable profit, most of which she funneled directly back into it. New linens, bathroom fixtures, paint. The stove Mae was so territorial about had been purchased only six months earlier.
    She took a salary for herself, a surprisingly modest one. He didn’t find, even after a more critical study, any evidence of her using any of the inn’s finances to ease her own way.
    An honest woman, Roman mused. At least on the surface.
    There was a bowl of potpourri on the desk, as there was in every room in the inn. Beside it was a framed picture of Charity standing in front of the mill wheel with a fragile-looking man with white hair.
    The grandfather, Roman decided, but it was Charity’s image he studied. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and her baggy overalls were stained at the knees. From gardening, Roman guessed. She was holding an armful of summer flowers. She looked as if she didn’t have a care in the world, but he noted that her free arm was around the old man, supporting him.
    He wondered what she had been thinking at that moment, what she had done the moment after the picture had been snapped. He swore at himself and looked away from the picture.
    She left notes to herself: Return wallpaper samples. New blocks for toy chest. Call piano tuner. Get flat repaired.
    He found nothing that touched on his reason for coming to the inn. Leaving the desk, he meticulously searched the rest of the parlor.
    Then he went into the adjoining bedroom. The bed, a four-poster, was covered with a lacy white spread and plumped with petit-point pillows. Beside it was a beautiful old