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vast change from the early morning sounds of the city. India smiled wryly as she stretched out her full five-foot-five-inch frame and pushed her toes out from under the light summer throw. There were no street noises to speak of much before noon in Devlin’s Light, unless you counted the sound of the Parson boy’s bike as he slowed down to toss a newspaper onto the front porch. And that wasn’t till around seven or so, so it didn’t really count. In the city, the first-edition newspapers landed on the front steps well before the sun came up, and you were lucky if someone hadn’t lifted your copy by the time you came outside looking for it.
    India squinted at the small numbers that circled the hand-painted face of the delicate porcelain clock that stood on the bedside table. Eight o’clock. India could not rememberthe last time she had slept till eight o’clock. On a normal workday, she’d be halfway through the documents she would need for court that day. Here in Devlin’s Light, there was no courtroom, no jail beyond the single holding cell where prisoners, mostly DUIs, would be housed till they made bail or were transferred over to the county jail. The crime rate in Devlin’s Light was so low it was almost nonexistent. There were exactly two unsolved crimes in the files of the Devlin’s Light police. One was the theft of the Lannings’ skiff the summer before. The second was the suspicious death of Ry Devlin.
    India threw her legs over the side of the bed and sat up in a single motion. For a few minutes she had almost forgotten what had brought her here, to the peace and quiet of a weekday morning in the old house on Darien Road, when this hour of the day would normally find her in a flurry of activity in her busy, noisy office in Paloma. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut.
    Ry.
    For the first time in a week she had had almost two minutes of consciousness when she had not thought of Ry. And not thinking of Ry had given her a reason to think of him.
    From down the hall she could hear the early morning sounds of a house coming to life. Aunt August, plagued by allergies this time of year, sniffled softly from the front bedroom where she had awakened almost every morning of her life, not counting those four years of college upstate many years ago. Water splashed in the sink in the bathroom next door. Corri washing her face, India guessed. The old faucet squeaked as the water was turned off—as it had squeaked for as long as Indy could remember—and the door opened softly. Corri’s little feet padded lightly on the rag runner that traced the length of the hallway as she returned to her room quietly, as if afraid to disturb anyone.
    Indy rose, lifting her arms toward the ceiling to stretch out the kinks. She gathered clothes from her suitcase— cutoff denim jeans and a blue and cream striped T-shirt— and headed for the shower.
    By the time India had dressed and made her way downstairs, Aunt August and Corri had already finished theirbreakfast in the cozy little nook off the kitchen. India joined them, grateful for the cup of freshly brewed coffee awaiting her.
    “It’s a perfect summer day, Indy,” Aunt August said purposefully as she rinsed her breakfast dishes under a stream of steaming water in the kitchen sink. “You and Corri might want to think about taking a picnic down to the beach.”
    “Sounds good to me,” India replied. “How ‘bout it, Corri?”
    Corri shrugged indifferently.
    “There’s lots of good things left over from yesterday.” August paused in the doorway and glanced at the child who was quietly beating a long, thin brown crust of her toast against the side of her plate. “I can pack up some chicken and some salad, some cookies that Liddy made …”
    August’s worried eyes caught India’s from above the head of the little girl who was clearly tuning out.
    “Do that, Aunt August.” India nodded. “We’ll be ready to go in half an hour. Soon as I finish my breakfast and take