After burying my wife, I finally unlocked the barn she had never allowed me to enter. For 37 years, it had been sealed off, a place she insisted held nothing but old tools and useless clutter. I expected dust, silence, and memories long forgotten.

After she left, I gathered my strength and insisted on seeing Brian. When I shuffled into room 412, Brian was sitting up in bed eating hospital oatmeal. His face broke into a smile.

“Paul,” he said, “man, you look terrible.”

I laughed, which hurt.

“You’re one to talk.”

The bandage on his temple reminded me of his fall, and he still moved carefully, protecting his ribs. But his eyes were clear.

“How are you holding up?” I asked, sitting beside his bed.

“A bit better than I should be.”

Brian set down his bowl.

“I’ve been thinking all morning. Dennis tried to hurt me three times. The rumors, the equipment, the ladder, the fire.”

He looked up at me.

“But then he came back. He saved us both. I don’t know how to feel about that.”

“Neither do I,” I admitted. “But he did come back. That has to count for something.”

“Does it?” Brian’s voice wasn’t angry, just uncertain. “Does doing one good thing erase three bad ones?”

I didn’t have an answer.

I was still working through it myself.

Detective Walsh knocked and entered. He was tall, with graying hair and a weathered face.

“Mr. Patterson. Mr. Patterson. Sorry to interrupt, but I need your official statements about last night.”