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“We’ll start with you, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course.” He could feel the silent, uneasy stares of the other guests as he walked toward Beau and Swenson. He was no longer looking directly at Beau, and Beau was no longer looking directly at him.

“It’s been a while.” Beau held one of the double doors open.

At the same time, a uniformed officer started into the room, so Archie did an awkward sidestep. He brushed uncomfortably close to Beau, close enough to smell his aftershave—a complicated blend of peppery apples and crushed amber—glimpse that same little dark curl behind his ear, note his body cam, the department issued Glock 19 at his right side.

Disconcerting. But then he was in the hall with its intricately patterned parquet floors and nineteenth century watercolor paintings of Oregon’s coast.

Beau was right behind him. The uniformed officer was requesting that the remaining guests not speak to each other—which was closing the barn door after the horse had fled—and Swenson said, “We’ve set up shop temporarily in Dr. Perry’s office.”

The words, the moment, felt dreamlike, distant. “Sure,” Archie said.

They walked across the hall to John’s study. When Archie had cut through the room earlier, he hadn’t bothered to turn the lights on. They were on now—every light in the house seemed to be on—and the room looked almost eerily unchanged.

Tall white bookcases, a large fireplace of white wood and green glazed bricks, and large rugs with faded patterns of cream and red roses. Fat, squashy leather sofas and wingback chairs offered inviting views of the beautiful room and lovely garden beyond the windows.

Everything was as Archie remembered—with one exception. The large winter landscape that had always hung over the fireplace was gone. In its place was an oil portrait of a slender young man of about seventeen: sharp, angular features; wavy hair the color of wheat falling haphazardly over a broad forehead; fair skin marked by a scatter of light freckles across his cheeks and nose. Intense blue eyes, bright and fierce, set above high cheekbones, gave the youth a watchful, almost penetrating gaze.

John.

But even as the thought formed, Archie realized his mistake—the lips were too thin, the chin too pointy, the build too slight. He was looking at a portrait of himself.

A weird mistake to make. Even weirder given that he’d never sat for a portrait. He’d never even had a formal photograph taken beyond those for his high school and college year-books—and his government-issued ID.

But that was certainly him. He recognized the silver chain around his neck—the St. Christopher medal his mom had given him, the one her father had worn while serving in Vietnam. The one Archie had lost in Wyoming when Kyle yanked it off his throat.

It was so odd. John had obviously taken his role as guardian a lot more seriously than Archie realized. After all, he’d stood in for Desi’s father—he was her uncle, a blood relation—but he didn’t have any oil paintings of her hanging around the place.

“Sorry for your loss,” Beau was saying. “Sorry we have to do this now.” His tone was courteous and impersonal.

“I understand,” Archie said automatically.

Swenson sat down at a table and chairs they’d moved to the side of the room—which was a lot more tactful than commandeering John’s desk. Archie sat down at the table across from Swenson. Beau moved toward the window. Nothing personal, that was so he could watch the interviewees out of their line of sight. But the idea that Beau was standing to the side observing him did little to relax Archie.

Swenson shuffled through his papers, and Archie realized the detective was even more uncomfortable than he was about Beau monitoring the proceedings. It was almost certainly Swenson’s first-time taking lead on a homicide. It might even be his first homicide.

Swenson quit shuffling, clicked his pen a couple of times, said, “You’re with the FBI, Mr. Crane?”

“Correct.” Archie had already introduced himself to Swenson in the garden, but there had been a lot going on.

Beau said quietly, “Special Agent Crane.”

Swenson’s head jerked up, his cheeks pinked, he said, “Special Agent Crane. You’re in Twinkleton visiting Dr. Perry?

“Correct.”

“Where is your legal place of residence?”

Archie was closer to Beau and heard his soft sigh. There wasn’t much funny about this, but he had to suppress a smile at that long-suffering sound. Before the undercover gig, he’d been partnered with a first office, AKA rookie, agent and it took a fair bit of patience. Beau had never been particularly patient.

“I currently rent an apartment in Stafford, Virginia.”

“Are you married?”

Archie stared straight ahead. “No. I live alone.”

They went quickly through the basics of name, rank, and serial number—well, not exactly, but close enough. Archie was brief and accurate—he was not about to divulge any details regarding an investigation that was still ongoing—and then Swenson asked, “You haven’t been back to visit Dr. Perry in seven years?”