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obvious enough the way he slouched with a mobile over his ear, pretending to have an intense conversation while snatching glimpses of Malcolm’s wares in the windows. “At first, I assumed he was a spy for a rival shop owner a few villages over,” Malcolm said with a put-upon sigh. “It’s amazing the lengths people will go to in an effort to mimic a good thing. I get it often enough.”
    “Then our victim entered the shop?”
    Malcolm perked up at the word our, as if he were an honorary member of the investigating team. Danny nodded encouragement.
    “He did indeed come into the shop. On Sunday. I had to light a second scented candle because he smelled ripe as curdled milk. But I always give a man a chance, so I called out to him to take his time browsing. He wasn’t a bad-looking lad. In fact, a good-looking young fella.” He nodded as if satisfied, even pleased, with his opinion on the matter. “Give him a few years and he’d have cut a fine specimen for the women. But still, I could have sworn he was trying to make me out for a shakedown, as they say.”
    Danny wondered who the “they” were who said “shakedown.” Malcolm went on to describe how Lost Boy had pawed merchandise far too rich for him. “Needless to say, I shooed him out,” Malcolm said. “It’s not good for business, having grubs like that in the store.”
    The boy’s visit had occurred on Sunday afternoon. Benjy’s report stated that the boy was attacked on Tuesday evening. Two days. And two days was more than enough time for a person’s life to derail. Sometimes all it took was a blink of a moment, the moment you looked away.
    “And your shop assistant? It’s still Seamus’s lad, eh?” Danny said. “I’d like to ask him a few questions.”
    “Brendan snuck off for lunch even though I’d asked him to start on the inventorying.” Malcolm heaved one of his smiles up at the ceiling. “Best done if I do it myself as usual.”
    “He’s working tomorrow?” Danny said.
    “If you could call it that, but, yes, he’ll be here.”
    A necklace with a pendant like tree branches caught Danny’s attention. The artist had carved in texture that suggested tree bark. The graceful design forked into stylized tines. The work was quite nice, Danny decided.
    Years ago he might have bought such a necklace for Ellen. He turned away from the display without examining its wares or his guilt further.

TEN
    T HE KITTENS WERE NOTICEABLY fatter in twenty-four hours. They couldn’t get enough of the warm kitten formula that Ellen fed them through a plastic glove with pinpricks in two of the fingertips. The poor mites were still so fragile, though, mewling like their little hearts would give out when she picked them up. She kept them in a dark and quiet corner of her closet, off limits to the children unless she was present. She still hadn’t washed them, not wanting them to catch a chill.
    She smiled to herself, enjoying a nostalgic fit of sadness as she remembered her first days breastfeeding Beth, who’d been as ravenous as these two. Plus, later there’d been the constant vigilance, the endless laundry—but she’d loved it all. The kittens weren’t far different there either. They had already fallen into a regular feeding cycle, and she already had a pile of soiled towels. As she nudged the dribbling plastic fingers toward their seeking mouths, she thought about kitty litter. So nice to ponder something as innocuous as litter boxes.
    She settled herself against the closet wall with legs poking into the bedroom. She had never noticed the mustiness inside the closet or the bedraggled state of her wardrobe. Fallen hems, frayed cuffs, and stains everywhere. She’d been living like this for too long; long before Danny had moved out. It took a fresh perspective from the floor of a closet to bring home to her how far she’d let herself fall since Beth’s death. That was three years ago, and perhaps three years was sufficient for the serious