Her lips turned up, then down, as if she didn't know what to do with her mouth. She shook her head. "I'd never kill anyone. I was home that night. All night. Rocky knows that. He'll swear to it."

"And someone saw you messing around with my truck," I lied, looking her straight in the eye. Who's a bad liar? Not me.

It seemed to work. Gabi looked really scared.

But she still didn't tip. "They couldn't have. I was home last night, too."

"And Rocky will confirm that."

"That's right. Listen, I don't know what your problem is, or what you want from me, but I didn't do anything wrong." Her voice wavered on the last few words.

I kept pushing. "Why did Ariel have Thea Hawke's bamboo fiber clutched in her hand when I found her? Why do you think we came up to see you about that fiber, anyway?"

She blinked. And slumped.

I took the opportunity and walked to the other side of the counter. "Gabi. You know what I'm talking about. You took those batts when you were here. I understand. You couldn't help yourself. You must have been looking at them when you were talking to Ariel, which is why she was by Ruth's spinning supplies instead of in her own studio space."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she mumbled.

"Ariel had a tuft in her hand. She must have grabbed it from you when you came up behind her." I said, thinking out loud now. "No, not yet. Because you were holding my yarn."

Her head jerked up. "Your yarn?"

"My yarn. My first sheep's wool two-ply." I couldn't keep the fury out of my voice, consumed with the thought that she'd used my yarn to kill that little girl.

"I have to go," she whispered, backing toward the front wall. She reached behind her back and fumbled with the lock on the door. Turned the knob. It opened.

"I didn't do anything wrong," she insisted one last time and fled.

I followed, but she was already pulling the Suburban out of the parking lot. She left rubber on the asphalt and barely missed hitting a silver sedan with Canadian license plates. The driver honked as she sped away.

The adrenaline seemed to disappear from my veins in a reverse rush. Weariness and inexplicable regret settled on me, heavy as sin, and I had to sit down on the bench located outside the door until I got my bearings again.

A bitter feeling that I'd screwed up crept over me and took up lodging in my stomach. Screwed up royally.

TWENTY-SEVEN

THE UNUSUALLY NICE SUMMER weather we'd been enjoying had been pushed out by a low pressure system and glowering skies. I walked quickly, hoping to beat the rain while at the same time gratefully inhaling the cooler air. Thoughts ping-ponged around my brain as if superheated. The more I thought about it, the more I questioned whether Gabi had killed Ariel. All the evidence seemed to point that way, even if she did have reasonable explanations for everything. But her reactions to my accusations were out of sync. She seemed more afraid than guilty. I wished I knew her better, so I could get more of a read on her. If only I could know for sure whether or not she was telling the truth.

As I came up our block, I saw someone on our front step. The closer I got, the more it looked like me sitting there.

Oh, great. Just what I needed.

Hannah Ambrose stood as I approached, her weight on one foot as if she were on the verge of running away.

If I'd had the sense of a gnat I'd have walked right on by, let her twist in the wind long enough to talk herself out of her visit.

But I apparently didn't have the sense of a gnat. "Hello, Hannah"

She looked at the ground. Awkwardly shuffled her feet. "Hi."

This was not the cocky, confident woman I'd met on Barr's front step.

I stopped in front of her. "You here to see me?"

She nodded. "Uh huh."

"Give me a second."

"Okay."

I went inside, shut the front door in her face and marched into Meghan's office. She looked up in surprise.

"Hannah's outside," I announced.

She leaned back. "So? Let her in."

"Really?"

"Or talk to her out there. Either way, I don't know what you want me to do about it"

I grimaced. "Neither do I. All I know is, I don't want to face the music, but the music is standing right on the other side of our front door."

"Go on. You can do it. Then come back and tell me what she said."

I sighed. "Fine."

In the entryway, I took a deep breath, grasped the knob, and flung the door open.

She stood on the bottom step, looking up at me and hugging herself with thin arms. Her short-sleeved cotton camp shirt was wrinkled, as were the Capri pants. She wore an old pair of Keds with no socks. She radiated an aura of disheveled youth and vulnerability.

I didn't buy it.

"Come on in," I said and led the way into the house. She trailed behind like a lost child.

Brodie greeted us in the foyer, and Hannah bent to pet his wiggling little self. He grinned up at her and gave a little yip.

Traitor.

"Can I get you something? Tea? Coffee?" Arsenic?

She shook her head. "No thanks."

So much for putting it off. Whatever "it" was.

"I have some work to do. We can talk while I do it," I said in Hannah's general direction.

"Okay."

Sheesh. What a conversationalist.

We traipsed through the kitchen and down the narrow wooden stairs to my basement workroom.

I didn't know what this woman wanted, or how she had the audacity to come visit me at all, but whatever her reasons, I liked the idea of dealing with her on my own turf. Indicating a stool on the other side of the center island where I worked, I said, "Have a seat."

She sat, craning her neck as she took in the kitchen appliances, the many work surfaces. "Cassie says you're a soap maker."

"I am." I waited for the next question. Talking about soap was easy.

But she wrinkled her nose. "It smells funny in here."

"It smells like rosemary in here." My voice was flat. "Which, last time I checked, wasn't all that funny."

"Oh," she said.

I used a wire grid to cut through one of the slabs of soap I'd poured previously. And waited. Glanced up. Then I picked up a knife and began trimming the uniform bars, smoothing the edges.

She watched the motions of my hands as if mesmerized. I tried to imagine this person cutting my brake line. Trying to kill me. I debated whether or not to confront her about it, very aware of how badly that had gone over with Gabi Kaminski.

Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. "Hannah."

She looked up.

"Why are you here?"

"I…" She licked her lips. "Well, I want you to give up Barr."

"Excuse me? Give him up?"

"Yes."

"Like `give' him to you?"

"Well, I guess it would look like that."

"No. It would be like that. Barr's a big boy, Hannah. Neither of us gets to decide what he does."

"You haven't been together very long. I've known him forever; we come from the same town. We have a history together, and you don't. And even if he won't admit it, he still loves me."

The knife slipped, and I nearly took off my thumb. Very carefully, I laid the blade on the work surface. My hands might have been trembling, but I managed to keep my voice low and even.

"This is ridiculous. I'm not having this conversation with you. You should go."

Raw fury at my dismissal flared in her eyes for an instant. She quickly blinked and looked away.

"I had him first." She sounded like a petulant child. Now tears magnified those big green eyes and made the long lashes shine in a way I imagined would pull at the heartstrings of a lot of men.