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others?”
    â€œNo. Never. Why are you asking me this?”
    â€œWell, ma’am, one of the possibilities based on the evidence is that what happened to Mr. Powell and Ms. Walters was a murder-suicide.”
    â€œNo,” I said plainly. “That’s not possible. What is your evidence for that?”
    â€œI’m not at liberty to say. I don’t want to jeopardize our investigation.” Lewis maintained his monotone. “But we haven’t officially ruled either death a suicide at this time.”
    â€œI don’t believe that Ethan would ever kill another soul, much less himself. Are you investigating the possibility of foul play at the retreat?”
    â€œWe’re looking at all angles right now,” Lewis said, “but at this point we do not have anyone we’re calling a suspect.”
    â€œI think you should be looking a little harder,” I snapped. “How many murders does your department investigate a year?”
    â€œWell, ma’am, this county only has about a thousand full-time residents. So this is the first one in quite a while.”
    â€œMaybe you should be handing this over to someone with more experience. Maybe the FBI or the New Mexico State Police. Because there’s no way the man I love is a killer, and you’d know that if you did a little investigating.” I tried to keep my voice calm, but it started to get louder. I slowed down my speech to make my point. “It. Is. Not. Possible.”
    Lewis sighed. “Listen. Between you and me, I do think there’s something hinky going on at the retreat. But the guy who runs the place . . .”
    â€œYoni?” I offered.
    â€œYes. Yoni, John Brooks, what have you. Mr. Brooks has avery expensive team of lawyers, and he’s greased a lot of palms over the past few years among the people who run this county. Additionally, Mr. Powell and Ms. Walters died on unincorporated land and not at the retreat. As of yet, we have not been able to get a warrant to search the grounds, and we have not been able to interview Mr. Brooks or anyone else over there.” I detected a bit of frustration in the sheriff’s voice.
    â€œYou’ve got to be kidding me,” I said. “How can you know anything about Ethan’s life without seeing where he worked and ate and slept?”
    â€œWell, ma’am, we can’t get someone in there, at least not someone who is employed by Sagebrush County. But that doesn’t mean a regular citizen couldn’t stay there as a guest.”
    I thought I detected a little wink in the sheriff’s deadpan. “Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”
    â€œI’m not suggesting anything,” Lewis said, sans wink. “I’m just bringing you up to date on the current status of our investigation.”
    â€œI see.”
    â€œMy number is 575-555-7849. If you find yourself here in Sagebrush County, or if you think of anything that might be pertinent to our investigation, please give me a ring.”
    I was so surprised by the sheriff’s suggesting I should stay at the retreat that all I could do was say “Okay.”
    I looked down at my phone. I couldn’t actually go out to the place where Ethan died, could I? I pictured the ample hair on his arms falling out and scattering in the desert wind, his body disintegrating and melding with the sand. My eyes blurred with tears and I doubled over. I cast the phone asideand sprawled out on the floor, crying so hard I thought I might throw up.
    I stayed on the floor for a long time, even after I stopped crying. I turned on my side and propped my head on my hand, then started tracing the lines between the wooden floorboards. The physical occupation calmed my mind. Did I still love Ethan, present tense, like I’d told Sheriff Lewis? Even after all those bitter years, all those hours logged in therapy? Hadn’t that affection been talked out of