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He felt a little chill run down his spine. This would be Uncle C.’s will.

No. It was too soon to be thinking of wills. Uncle C. was going to recover and come home, and everything would go back to normal.

Whatever normal was.

He tucked the letter back in the book and returned the book to the bottom of the safe. He was about to shut the door when he noticed the dull sheen of purple velvet tucked way back on one of the small side shelves.

Andy pulled out a long velvet bag, which felt surprisingly weighty. He opened the soft folds and studied the wink and glitter of jewelry.

He rose, gently spilling the contents of the bag over Uncle C.’s desk. Heavy necklaces with large, glass cabochon stones and bracelets with delicately carved exotic faces landed on the leather desk blotter like pirate’s booty.

Not the real thing, of course. This was costume jewelry. But good costume jewelry. The kind of thing that fetched a decent price from collectors on sites like eBay and Etsy. Not Andy’s area of expertise. Not Uncle C.’s either, though they both knew enough to recognize that if you could find the right buyer, these were valuable items.

He piled the jewelry back into the bag, replaced the bag in the safe, and closed the safe. He gave the dial a final twist.

The items in the safe were some of the most valuable in the shop, but like the undisturbed pieces in the window display, even these weren’t worth enough to justify the risk Uncle C.’s attackers—attacker?—had taken.

At least, not in Andy’s opinion. According to Marcus, motive was subjective. That was probably true.

One thing for sure, coming back a second time in broad daylight had definitely been risky.

But then, as Quinn had pointed out, this was someone willing to kill to get what they were after.

Quinn.

Better not to think about Quinn. Though that was easier said than done. Andy’s thoughts had an aggravating tendency to circle back to their brief encounter, much like a hiker lost in the North Maine Woods.

I think I owe you something.

Andy had been thinking the same thing ever since he’d heard Quinn was still alive.

And Quinn did owe him something. He owed him an explanation.

But beyond that? As hurtful as Quinn’s actions had been, they’d both been kids.

Well, at eighteen, Quinn had technically been an adult. But in actuality? Eighteen was still a kid. And no one knew better than Andy, the hell of Quinn’s homelife. Things had been so bad back then, the idea that Quinn’s grandfather might have killed him had seemed not only believable, it had been the most likely explanation.

Granted, Andy had known things no one else knew.

So, really, it was no surprise Quinn had run away—at eighteen, it wasn’t technically considered running away—and maybe there wasn’t much more to say beyond Quinn’s brief,I realized it was time to head out.

But Andy still wanted to hear whatever else Quinn had to say.

He was reheating Mrs. Dubonnet’s zucchini casserole and listening to the local news—none of it good—on Uncle C.’s decrepit television, when someone knocked on the side door.

Marcus.

Andy’s heart gave a couple of terrified leaps and bounds around his rib cage.

He’d already deleted thirteen messages from his cell-phone’s voice mail before making the drastic decision to block Marcus’s number. He knew Marcus too well not to expect some kind of retaliation, but Marcus typically liked a lag between crime and punishment. Liked to take the time for tension and anxiety to build.

Marcus understood the power of suspense.

However, a quick twitch of the side-window curtains reassured Andy that Marcus did not currently darken his doorstep. Instead, Clark and Fleur crowded onto the tiny landing, arguing quietly, their breath misting in the wan porchlight.

Andy unlocked the side door and opened it.

Clark, huddled in his tan parka, offered a sickly smile. Fleur, dressed for the slopes and cafés of Aspen in white leggings and a fur-lined jacket, was tight-faced and pale as she stared at him.