“There’s a dog door that goes into the backyard. Probably came in at night.”

Turning, I pull an evidence bag from a drawer in my credenza. I slide the notes into it and then seal it. “I’ll send these to the lab to see if they can pick up some latents.”

“I appreciate that.”

“You know, Norm, most stalking victims know their stalkers or they’ve had some contact with them at some point.” I make the statement without looking at him.

“Well, I have no idea who this is.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure.”

“Do you think it’s from a male or female?”

He hesitates. “I don’t know.”

I tap the evidence bag with my finger. “Are these the only notes you’ve received?”

“Yes.”

“Has anything else unusual happened? At home? At your office? Or when you’ve been out and about?”

“No.”

“What about social media? Facebook or Twitter? Or e-mail? Any strange messages? Or phone calls?”

“No. Nothing like that.”

“Anything taken from your garage?”

“I checked. No.” Pulling a kerchief from the pocket of his jacket, he blots at the sheen of sweat on his forehead. “This person came into my home, Chief Burkholder. In light of this recent and as-of-yet-unsolved murder, I felt as if I was being threatened.”

I pick up the evidence bag and recite the notes aloud from memory. “‘You knew.’ ‘You looked the other way.’ ‘You’re next.’” I furrow my brow. “They seem to be referring to a specific incident,” I say. “You’re sure you don’t have any idea what this stalker is referring to? Maybe he or she feels you’ve somehow wronged them? Maybe you had an argument or altercation that you didn’t think was important or significant at the time?”

“I have no idea what they could be referring to.”

“Norm, I know it’s frightening when something like this happens, and I know it can be disruptive to your life, but we don’t know that it’s related in any way to the murder.”

“I didn’t say it was,” he says defensively. “I said in light of the unsolved murder, I felt I should let you know.” He lowers his voice. “I’d appreciate some protection, Chief Burkholder. I want a police car at my house. At least at night.”

I pause to choose my words with care, because I know he’s not going to respond well to what I’m about to tell him. “Norm, I’m not discounting the threat posed to you by these notes. I think we should take this very seriously. But as town councilman, you know I don’t have the manpower to assign an officer to you, especially with this homicide on my hands.”

“I’m part of the governing body of this town. It’s your responsibility as chief to keep me and the rest of the citizens of Painters Mill safe from harm.”

“I can step up patrols—”

“I’ll go over your head. I’ll—”

I cut him off. “Norm, all you can do at this point is be vigilant about your personal safety. Keep your doors and windows locked. Keep your alarm system engaged. Be aware of your surroundings—”

“I don’t have an alarm system,” he snaps.

“Well, then get one installed,” I say firmly. “If you’re frightened, I suggest you hire private security.”

“Private security? Are you kidding?” He rises so abruptly, the chair back strikes the wall and chips the paint. “I knew better than to come in here and ask for anything from you.”

I rise as well. “Norm, calm down.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down!”

“I’m doing the best I can.”

“Not good enough. As usual.” He jabs his finger at me. He’s so angry, his hand is shaking. “If anything happens to me, Burkholder, it’s on your fucking back.” He jabs again. “Yours!”

“Norm—”

“Go to hell.”

He turns away, stalks to the door, and pushes it open with both hands. It swings wide and bangs against the wall hard enough to rattle the framed map of Holmes County.

CHAPTER 11

I’m usually pretty good at letting things roll off my back, especially when it comes to my job. A police chief invariably encounters a high level of conflict in the course of his or her duties—and a fair share of criticism. I learned a long time ago that you can’t please everyone. When you’re chief and you have an entire town counting on you to protect and serve, it’s foolish to try.

Still, my conversation with Norm Johnston troubles me as I head toward the farm. It’s not until I reach the county road that I realize it has more to do with his overreaction to the situation than his actual overt hostility. Worse, I can’t shake the feeling that he’s not telling me something. But what?

It’s after ten when I arrive at the farm. I’m preoccupied with the case, the conversations and suppositions of the day. Thoughts of work evaporate when I spot Tomasetti’s Tahoe parked in its usual spot. Anticipation swells in my chest. It seems like days since I last saw him. In reality it’s been less than twenty-four hours, but suddenly I can’t wait to see him. I park beside his vehicle, shut down the engine, and get out. It’s raining again, so I grab my umbrella from the backseat and hightail it to the house.

I open the door and step into the brightly lit kitchen. Tomasetti is sitting at the table, his laptop open in front of him. The room smells of spaghetti and the bowl of potpourri I keep on the console table in the hall.

He looks up from his computer as I shake the rain from my coat. “Hey,” he says, rising.

“Hi.” I hang my coat on the hook, but not before I notice the tumbler of whiskey on the table beside his laptop.

He goes to the cupboard and pulls out the bottle of cabernet we opened the day before. He pours a generous amount into a glass and hands it to me. “You look tired,” he says.

I take the drink. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, Tomasetti.”

“In that case, first things first.” Taking the glass from me, he sets it on the counter, then raises his hands to either side of my face and kisses me.

Even after living with him for almost six months, this kind of intimacy still feels foreign and new. It moves me and I lean into him, my legs seeming to melt beneath me.

After a moment, he pulls back and hands me the wine. “Hungry?”

“Starved.”

He turns to the stove and removes the lid from a small saucepan. “Leftovers okay?”

“You’re not trying to make up for leaving without a word this morning and avoiding me all day, are you?” I ask.

He looks at me over his shoulder and grins. “I thought I’d try.”

“It’s working.” I walk to the stove and look into the saucepan to see that he kept spaghetti warm for me. “Smells great.”

“Have a seat.”

I take my glass to the table and sit across from where he was sitting and sip the wine. It’s dark and rich and leaves my tongue with a happy aftertaste.

Tomasetti places a plate of spaghetti, French bread, and a small salad in front of me. “So how’s the case going?” he asks as he takes the chair across from me.

I give him the highlights, ending with a recap of my conversation with Blue Branson.

“You think he’s involved with the murder?” he asks.

“I don’t think so, but he’s hiding something.”

“Protecting someone?”

“Maybe,” I tell him.

He turns his attention to his laptop. I take the opportunity to wolf down the food. “You wouldn’t think less of me if I licked my plate, would you?” I ask.

“No.” He doesn’t look up from the laptop, but his mouth twitches. “But I might get turned on.”

Smiling, I rise and take my plate to the sink. “What did you do today?”

“I went to Joey Ferguson’s house up in Bay Village.”

I nearly drop the dish in the sink, and I turn to face him. “Are you kidding me?”

He types something on the keypad. “Nope.”

“Tomasetti, I don’t have to tell you that was a bad idea, do I?”

He says nothing.

But I’m not ready to let it go. “You can’t have any contact with Ferguson.”