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because of my fear of what I would find. If something had happened at the library, to Calla, the day before, it would be in the morning paper. There was no question about that.
    The headline announced a deep drop in future grain prices, mostly due to the Cuban embargo, the ongoing distrust of the Russians, and the fall of demand in Europe. I was silently relieved, even though dropping grain prices was the first thing I didn’t need when it came to our finances. I was accustomed to that kind of news, to the ups and downs of farm life. My father used to say, “Some years are bedder than others, Marjorie. It all evens out,” in his sweet North Dakota accent. But there was plenty of shocking news to comprehend, to digest, of late, and that was what I’d been afraid of.
    I was about to chastise myself, until my scanning eyes caught a bit of small print at the bottom corner of the paper. Even without my reading glasses, I knew it had to be what I was searching for.
    A strong push of wind reared up behind me, nearly tearing the fragile paper from my hand that had, by then, started to shake. I tightened my grasp, but the paper ripped, and the front page soared up into the sky like an errant kite that had broken free from a child’s careless hand.
    â€œNo!” I yelled. “No.” My words chased after the paper, overtook it on the wind, but did nothing to slow its pace. Before I knew it, the front page of the Press had disappeared behind the garage, out of sight.
    The words that I’d read exploded in my brain and flew about just as unhindered as the newspaper page. The news might have been in small print, but it might as well have been as big as a highway billboard:
    Longtime Librarian Found Dead.
    My dread and concern had been right, but I didn’t know the details. I could only imagine what had happened at the library. Maybe Calla had a heart attack or choked on a piece of chicken. More than anything, I hoped that death had come quick to her, that she hadn’t suffered, hadn’t had time to be afraid, but honestly, more than anything, I hoped the paper was wrong. I hoped for a retraction, a heartfelt apology from the editor to Calla. But I knew that was magical thinking, too. Calla Eltmore was dead. I could hardly believe it.
    My yell had drawn Shep’s attention to me, to the flying paper, and for a brief second I made eye contact with the dog, then gave him a little nod.
    Shep tore out after the front page of the Press , but I was certain that he was on a fool’s errand. That paper was most likely in the next county, leaving me with more questions than I needed and a sense of doom and grief that seemed to live close to my heart.
    I couldn’t imagine my life without Calla Eltmore in it. It was just impossible to consider such a thing. But I knew the words I’d read to be true, and I felt the emptiness of my life grow under my feet like an endless chasm had opened up, determined to draw me into its deep darkness forever.

CHAPTER 6
    Betty Walsh had been a counter girl at the Rexall since she’d graduated high school. She also volunteered at the hospital as a candy striper in her spare time, which in theory made her a perfect candidate to look after Hank when an immediate need arose.
    Betty was also Jaeger Knudsen’s on-again, off-again girlfriend. Thankfully, at the moment, they were on again. Actually, more on than they should be as far as I was concerned. It was obvious to me that they were sleeping together. Not that I was a prude; sex had always been a fact of life on the farm—you could see proof of it every day if you cared enough to notice. I certainly didn’t blame Jaeger for the need of comfort, but he was young and vulnerable. One mistake could alter the direction of his life in a bad way, force him into something he wasn’t prepared for. Betty’s life, too, as far as that went. Neither of them was ready to be a parent.
    As it was, the two of