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“She meant your watch,” Quinn said. “And your coat.”

Andy’s Tangente 38 stainless steel and canvas watch had been his college graduation gift from his parents. His black Tom Ford coat had been his Christmas present from Marcus—who had charged it to Andy’s credit card.

Every time he thought of Marcus, he got a jolt. Increasingly, the jolt was relief that he no longer had to fear Marcus coming for him—and recognizing that relief made him feel sick. Marcus wasn’t just gone; he had beenmurdered. He did not want to be glad about that.

Ms. Polka Dot Doughnut returned with a phone number on a slip of paper. “The funeral was Saturday, so…”

“Don’t worry. We’ll be tactful,” Quinn promised, and took the number.

Strike Two.

No one answered the phone at the Whittaker residence.

Nor, when Andy and Quinn parked a block away and walked up to knock on the white colonial’s front door, did anyone reply. There was not so much as the twitch of a curtain.

A frozen floral arrangement sat on the front step, and three rolled newspapers were scattered across the empty driveway—the only driveway on the quiet, residential street, where snow had not been scraped away.

“He’s gone,” Andy said.

Quinn grunted, staring up at the blank face of the silent house.

“Do you think he’s trying to avoid ending up like June? Or do you think he and June were holding out on Sirius, and now Ralph’s on the run with the jewels?”

“Good question.”

Andy thought Quinn might go around to the back entrance, but instead he slipped what appeared to be a business card between the door and frame, turned, and headed back to the sidewalk. Andy followed.

“You left your business card?” he asked curiously as they walked back to their rental car.

“I left a card I picked up at the car-rental place. Sara’s Sandwiches and Snacks.” Quinn sounded absent. “I need to get inside that house.”

“Now?” Andy threw an uneasy glance at the surrounding homes. Every house was trimmed with Christmas lights. Every door had a wreath. Every yard had at least one reindeer or inflatable angel. This was a neighborhood where people paid attention and participated. This was a mini village guarded by Ring Doorbells and motion sensors and security cams and dogs and, no doubt, at least one ever-vigilant Mrs. Dubonnet.

Quinn gave a brief shake of his head. “Tonight.”

Andy nodded. He was not particularly reassured.

“Don’t worry. If you’re not—”

“I didn’t come to Bangor to Christmas shop.”

That seemed to shake Quinn out of his preoccupation. He teased, “Really? Is your Christmas shopping all finished? What did you get me?”

“Hopefully, not twenty-to-life.”

Quinn chuckled. “Beats getting another tie.”

From the Whittaker house, they drove to the Hilton Garden Inn conveniently located near Godfrey House museum, the Paul Bunyan statue, and Highway 95.

“One room or two?” Quinn asked under voiced as they waited for the front desk clerk to finish her phone call.

It was a simple question, and Quinn’s attention seemed to be on the covered plate of Christmas cookies on the counter, so it was a mystery why Andy suddenly felt flushed and self-conscious and uncertain.

Did he want to spend a second night with Quinn? A night where they didn’t talk away the hours? That was the only real question. Sunday night—which felt like a very long time ago—had been, well, it was hard to say what it had been. Explanation, apology, and forgiveness, for sure. But also…Good-Bye to All That, to quote one of Uncle C.’s favorite books. In a way, Quinn and Andy had come together to say goodbye. The goodbye there had been no time for that fateful night.

Goodbye to the past.

Had it also been hello?