Page 22 of 13 Nights

"And before the historical society?"

"Farming, mostly. Some trade. The usual Hudson Valley story."

"What about the collection? The Hadley papers you mentioned."

The relaxation vanishes. "I told you. Property records, local correspondence. Family history."

"Last time I was here, you told me your family remembers its researchers. Tell me what you remember about my mother specifically."

His hands find the coffee cup. He wraps both palms around it the way a man holds something when his body needs an anchor. The hesitation is brief. A man with better training might have hidden it.

"Diane rented the cottage years ago."

"Rented it from whom?"

"My grandfather."

"She and my father bought it."

His thumb presses white against the ceramic. "Later, perhaps."

"You said you didn't remember the details."

"I remember what my family told me."

If the Hadleys owned the cottage before my mother, that would explain its location, the writing desk, and Tom's interest in who lives there. I file the connection and move on.

I don't push. Pushing Tom has diminishing returns without the leverage to make his evasions cost more than his silence. I need the Marburg response. I need the documentary chain. Then I'll come back with evidence he can't wave away as my mother's overactive research habits.

"Thanks for the history lesson," I say, and pick up my bag.

"Ashley." His voice catches me at the door. "Your mother was a good person. I want you to know that whatever you think I'm keeping from you, I'm not the enemy."

"I didn't say you were."

"No. But you're about to start thinking it, and I wanted you to hear that before you did."

Lena calls while I'm walking home. I answer because I promised. Lena carried me through my mother's death. She deserves better than a text.

The October wind catches my hair and pushes it across my face. I hold the phone with one hand and fight the hair with the other.

"You sound different," she says.

"I'm fine."

"I didn't say you sounded bad. I said you sounded different. There's a quality in your voice I haven't heard since before your mom died. Either you've started the novel or you've met someone."

I laugh. It comes out wrong, too high and too quick. "I'm working on something. It's complicated."

"Complicated like the story is complicated, or complicated like the man is complicated?"

"Lena."

"That's what I thought." A pause. "Is he good to you?"

The question lands in a place I'm not prepared to examine in the middle of a sidewalk in Sleepy Hollow with a tourist family in matching skeleton hoodies walking past me.

"He's honest," I say. "That's not the same thing, but it's what I need right now."