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Fire crackled in the giant fireplace, and Max Rhodes settled deeper into his sister Keira’s giant sectional, his stomach feeling more than stuffed.

He and Dave Keaton had been treated to the best dinner Max had eaten since the last time he’d visited his sister.

Keaton had headed to a hotel after the meal, but Max was staying in his sister’s guest room during their time in Bend.

Her husband, TJ, dropped heavily onto the other end of the sectional, kicked off his shoes, and put his feet up on the coffee table. “I’m glad she only cooks like that when you’re in town,” said TJ. “Otherwise I’d weigh three times what I do.”

“She’s always been a good cook,” said Max. “Mom and Grandma saw to that.”

TJ eyed him. “Missing home?”

“Sacramento is my home now.”

“Yeah, but you’ve got roots here.”

“I won’t deny that.” Max had grown up two hundred miles away, in Medford, Oregon. The southern Oregon town was on the other side of the Cascade mountains, but he’d often crossed over the range to ski or to spend summers in central Oregon with his grandmother, who’d lived twenty minutes from Bend.

He had to admit the area still felt like home.

“You visit your grandmother yet?”

“Maybe tomorrow. Depends when we finish our interviews.”

TJ sat up. “Now that Keaton’s left, can you tell us what exactly you’re investigating in town?”

“Leave him alone, TJ,” said Keira as she entered the room, a glass of wine in her hand.

“You know better than to ask.” She took a seat in an easy chair, stretched out her long legs, and added her feet to the coffee table.

Everyone in Max’s family was tall. He knew Keira had been teased about it as a kid, but now she embraced her height.

One drunken night, with his eyes gleaming in admiration, TJ had told Max that Keira reminded him of an Amazon warrior and then gone into some details of their intimate role-play.

The images were still trapped in Max’s mind.

TJ was the closest thing he had to a brother, so he hadn’t broken the man’s neck.

“No wine for us?” TJ asked his wife.

“Help yourself. It’s on the kitchen counter. Max?” She looked at her brother.

“Not tonight,” he said as TJ vanished into the kitchen.

“Now,” said Keira, abruptly sitting forward with a glint in her eye. “Who are you interviewing and why?”

Max grinned. Keira always made different rules for herself. He’d known she’d corner him and ask, so he’d already decided what he could share.

“We’re talking to the family of a murder victim. It happened thirteen years ago near Sacramento but was never solved.”

“Ohhh.” Keira was a true crime TV show and podcast addict. “Do you think one of the relatives did it?” she asked eagerly, making him laugh.

“You watch too much TV.”

“I watch the real stuff. And you’d be amazed at how often it was a family member. Statistics back that up.”

“They do,” Max agreed.

When the FBI had revisited the case, they’d decided they wanted a closer look at Noelle. No one at the FBI would outright state it, but Max had inferred that Noelle was number one on their suspect list. After meeting her, Max sincerely hoped she wasn’t involved in her husband’s murder.

Everything indicated that she was a good cop. And an interesting human being. He’d learned from their interview that her values seemed to be in the right places.

“It’s always the spouse,” continued Keira.

“It’s often the spouse,” corrected Max.

She waved a hand. “You know what I meant.”

Before they’d left Sacramento, he and Agent Keaton had interviewed retired FBI special agent Alice Patmore, who’d been part of the original investigation thirteen years ago.

Patmore still lived near Sacramento and raised alpacas on a little farm to the west with her boyfriend.

As they’d parked at her home, Keaton had stared at the animals, standing in a row at the fence, who’d watched them arrive.

“Those are the oddest-looking things I’ve ever seen,” he’d said.

“Haven’t you ever seen an alpaca before?” Max had asked, silently agreeing that the long necks and round furry heads made them look like Dr. Seuss drawings.

“Sure. On TV. Never in person.”

Inside the house, after she’d poured them steaming cups of coffee, Patmore had been very blunt with her opinion about Noelle. “She didn’t do it,” she’d stated.

“But you never proved she didn’t do it,” Keaton had insisted.

“Are you new to the United States?” Patmore had snapped, glaring at Keaton. “Ever hear of innocent until proven guilty?”

Max had wisely kept his mouth shut.

“I’ve known this woman for thirteen years,” Patmore had continued. “We keep in touch, and I can say with confidence that I know her character. She didn’t do it.”

“Maybe she didn’t mean to do it,” Keaton had said. “Shit happens. Accidents happen.”

“Are you saying she accidentally beat him thirty-seven times with a crowbar?” Patmore asked politely.

Keaton had no answer for that.

“You helped her into the Sacramento Police Department,” said Max.

“Is there a question in there?” asked Patmore, turning her probing gaze on him.

“Why did you help?” added Max.

“Why not? Noelle was struggling to find a direction in her life, and I knew she’d be damned good at the job.” She shrugged. “I didn’t help her get in; she did that on her own.”

“So who do you think murdered Assemblyman Bell?” Max had asked.

“I don’t know,” Alice said simply, lifting her hands. “The evidence never indicated who could have been there that day besides Noelle.”

Her name hung in the air for a long moment.

“She was the only one there,” Keaton had finally said.

“No, someone made a phone call, and someone walked away with a crowbar.” She scowled at him. “Did you not read anything on this case?”

Max knew he had; Keaton was trying to get a reaction out of Patmore.

“She could have made the phone call and hidden the crowbar,” said Keaton.

“After she knocked herself out with it?”

“It’s inconclusive that she was unconscious from the blow. Paramedics and police assumed she was.” He shrugged. “Maybe she was faking it.”

“Do you know how many years I’ve heard, ‘Maybe she was faking it’?” Patmore had glared at him.

“Thirteen?” asked Max, earning his own glare.

“She’s a good kid,” said Patmore.

“Good kids have been known to kill,” said Keaton.

“I’m tired of you throwing out clichés as if they’re evidence,” Patmore had said in an annoyed tone. “If you want to arrest her so badly, go find some evidence. I’ve got nothing for you.”

“You really like this woman,” Max had observed.

“Again. Is that a question?” This time there’d been an amused glimmer in her eye.

“No.” Max had wrapped his hands around his coffee mug. “Tell me. After the murder investigation finished—”

“It never finished,” stated Patmore. “It’ll be finished when there is an arrest.”

“Correct. I misspoke. After it had drastically slowed and Noelle was into her career with the Sacramento PD and even after she moved to Oregon, you’ve made it clear that the two of you stayed in contact.”

“Correct. Lunches. Coffee. Just phone calls and texts once she left town.”

“During those contacts, how many times did Noelle ask for a progress report on the murder?”

Patmore had paused. “We always talked about the case. Every single time we spoke.”

“Maybe I didn’t phrase that right,” said Max. “Did Noelle specifically call to ask for updates?”

“She knew I’d tell her if something had popped up.”

Still not what I asked.

The retired agent had held his gaze; clearly she’d known exactly what he was asking.

When a spouse has been murdered, the other spouse hounds the investigators. They flood the investigation with suggestions, bits of past conversations, receipts, any little thing they hope can help.

Noelle hadn’t done that. She’d answered every question that was asked and handed over everything requested. But based on what Max had seen in the call records and read in the interviews, she had never initiated.

“Do you have phone calls on the anniversary of his death?” Max had asked.

“Noelle never wanted that. Which is understandable.”

“According to our records, Noelle has never contacted the FBI about this case since you retired.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” said Patmore. “Since I wasn’t there.”

“Why wouldn’t she call for updates? She didn’t contact the county sheriff’s department either,” Max had pressed.

“You’ll have to ask her,” Patmore had said. “If you want speculation from me, I’ll guess that she wanted to leave the tragic event in the past. Everyone reacts differently, you know.”

“Her husband was murdered,” Keaton had said. “Horribly. I’d badger the police for decades if that’s what it took to get results.”

The retired agent had simply shrugged and sipped her coffee.

Alice Patmore was shrewd. The record of her time at the FBI was spotless and full of commendations, but she offered little insight into the old case other than stating she didn’t believe it had been Noelle.

Then who?

Max stared absently into his sister’s toasty fire. “I don’t think it’s the spouse this time,” he told Keira. “We interviewed her all day today.”

“What’s her name?” asked TJ, walking back into the room with a large wineglass filled to the brim. “Shoulda known Keira would get you to talk.” He blew a kiss at his wife.

Max paused. He would trust Keira and TJ with his life. And they knew how important it was to keep anything he said about a case to themselves. “Noelle Marshall.”

Keira tipped her head. “Why do I know that name?” she muttered as she pulled out her phone and opened her browser.

“I know you won’t talk to anyone about this,” Max said forcefully.

“Aha.” Keira looked pleased at what she saw on her screen. “TJ, remember that shooting last year? A Deschutes County detective shot a man who’d killed a cop and kidnapped several other people? The detective’s name was Noelle Marshall. Is that her, Max?”

“Yes.” He’d read all the reports on the case. There were a lot of them.

TJ’s brows rose. “You’re investigating someone in law enforcement?” he asked Max.

“I’m doing my job,” said Max. “Doesn’t matter their profession.”

“They called this woman a hero. She saved several lives by stopping that man,” said Keira, still scrolling. “I don’t see anything about her having a murdered husband, though.”

“Probably because it’s old news.” Max decided to keep Noelle’s previous last name to himself.

“Hmmm.” Keira continued to focus on her phone.

She’ll figure out the name and Noelle’s history soon enough.

“You look wound up,” said TJ, studying Max.

“I am,” he admitted. “All-day interviews are stressful.”

“You need to go for a motorcycle ride. That’ll relax you. You can borrow mine. My gear should fit you.”

Tempted, Max glanced through the windows at the dark sky. “Too late tonight.”

There was nothing Max loved more than to take a bike on an open road. Bend had dozens of twisty country roads with little traffic that were ideal for a motorcycle ride. “Thanks, TJ. Your offer means a lot.”

TJ waved a hand. “It’s nothing. I know you’d loan yours to me.”

“Maybe.” Max kept his face expressionless.

“Bullshit! You know you would.” TJ’s eyes lit up as he laughed.

Riding was an escape. One that lit a fire inside Max and brought joy to his heart.

“Wanna see it?” asked TJ.

“He saw your new bike on his last visit,” said Keira, still studying her screen.

TJ exchanged a look with Max, who grinned, knowing his brother-in-law had the same weird habit. Each of them sometimes sat alone in his garage for a long period and simply looked at his motorcycle.

It was a bit nerdy.

“I’ll take another look at it,” said Max, getting to his feet. TJ had already stood and was headed to the garage, wine in hand.

Keira muttered something that sounded like “Men.”

Max grinned, knowing she loved riding behind her husband. She’d ridden with TJ since before they married.

In the garage, both men were silent a long moment, admiring the big KTM motorcycle.

“Miss your old job?” TJ asked.

“It was pretty awesome to be paid to ride a motorcycle every day.” Max had been a motor—a motorcycle officer—for the Medford police before he applied to the FBI.

“The best.”

“It really was.”

“Weather is clear and cold all week,” said TJ. “If you can find time, it’s yours for a ride.”

“Thanks.” Max owned the same KTM motorcycle. Although his was a few years older, the Austrian machine had almost the same amount of addicting power. Weighing more than five hundred pounds, it was a beast that ate up the road. “Maybe I’ll finish up early tomorrow.”

His thoughts went to Noelle Marshall, wondering when they’d bring her back for another interview. First they needed to speak to the rest of her family.

The door to the house opened. “You two done gawking at that chunk of metal?” Keira asked.

“No,” stated TJ, his gaze still on the bike. Neither he nor Max moved.

“I want a game of Uno,” said Keira. “I deserve revenge.”

“The rules of Uno provide no protection for spouses,” TJ deadpanned. “If you’re sitting next to me, and I have a Draw Four card, I’m going to play it.”

“But three times in a row?” she complained.

TJ shrugged. “I like to win.”

Max relaxed as their banter flowed around him. TJ and Kiera both liked to win, and games often grew loud with challenges thrown about and good-natured insults flying. Keira became ferocious with cards in her hands.

It made him feel at home.

“I’ll trounce both of you,” Max announced loudly over Keira’s demand for a rematch. “Let’s go.”

After a last longing glance at the bike, he followed TJ back into the house.

I forgot how much I miss having family around.