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prospect, and they’d spent an afternoon talking about how he would go about digging beds around the entire perimeter of the yard so that she could plant her favorites—roses, peonies, hollyhocks. All the staples of an old-fashioned garden, she’d told him, just like the one her mother had planted in the tiny yard of their twin home in Philadelphia’s University City back when her father was a professor at Drexel. Annie’s cheeks had flushed with the joy of that memory, and her eyes had sparkled at the prospect of re-creating her mother’s garden.
    Evan had dug up one section that weekend, a short piece across the back face, and the following day, Annie had gone to the nursery and bought three peonies, which they’d planted together.
    “The man at the nursery said that they won’t bloom for a few years, but that’s okay.” She’d smiled up at him. “We can wait them out together. Just think how much we’ll appreciate those first flowers when they finally bloom . . .”
    That had been the last time they’d worked on it. The responsibilities that came with both their jobs had intervened. Now Annie’s garden lay before him, just one more loose end in his life. Just one more thing he’d started, but never got around to finishing.
    Evan put the beer down on the back-porch steps and went into his garage. He emerged a minute later, carrying a shovel. He went straight to one side of the fence, walked off a depth of three feet, and began to dig. When he finished with one side, he began to dig along the other, until the entire fence was framed with a newly dug bed.
    He stood in the middle of the yard, panting slightly from exertion. If she came back, the garden would be ready for her to plant.
    He leaned upon the shovel handle and asked himself just how likely it was that she’d come back.
    “Fat chance, Crosby,” he muttered aloud. “Why would she?”
    Because she loves me.
His inner voice spoke without hesitation.
    Dragging the shovel, he walked back to the porch, took a long swig of lukewarm beer, and told himself something he already knew.
    The ball is in my court. First, I need to decide how I feel about her.
    Do I love her? Yes.
    Do I want her? Yes.
    How far am I willing to go for her?
    As far as it takes . . .
    But how, he wondered, could they plan a life together, with the specter of her dead fiancé standing between them?
    As long as questions about Dylan’s life remained unanswered, Evan knew he and Annie could not move forward, could not plan a life together. It was as simple as that.
    “Okay, then. So that’s the bottom line.” He muttered the words aloud, acknowledging what had to be done.
    Maybe he’d known all along. Maybe Friday night had just brought it all into focus.
    He dialed Annie’s cell phone and was disappointed when he got her voice mail. Taking a deep breath, he began.
    “Annie, I’m sorry. I acted like a fool. A very immature fool. I’m trying to put myself in your place, and I guess maybe I’d feel the same way. If something happened to you . . . well, I doubt I’d ever rest until I found the truth. I’d owe you that much. Just as you owe Dylan. So. We need to talk.”
    He paused, then added, before he hung up, “I love you, Annie. With all my heart. I’m not willing to spend the rest of my life without you. If finding Dylan’s killer is what we need to do in order for this thing to work between us, then let’s do it. Let’s try to figure it out so that Dylan can be at peace. And so can we . . .”
    He tried to think of something else to say, then realized he’d said it all. He disconnected the call and slipped the phone back into his pants pocket. There was still another hour or so of daylight. The local nursery was only ten minutes away. Maybe he’d have time to pick out a rosebush or two.
    On his way to his car, his phone rang.
    “Crosby.” He smiled, anticipating the sound of her voice.
    “Evan, we need you. We’ve found another body . . .”
    “Where?” His