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gaze is steady and makes me uncomfortable. He presses his thumbs together. “Look, I did hear this bit of gossip. Take it for what it’s worth. Abby was in the bank yesterday trying to get a loan.”
    “So that’s it.” I cross my arms over my chest where a deep ache throbs. “She must have been looking for something to sell. She sold the piano. What’s next? Why did Momma write her will the way she did? It just doesn’t make sense.”
    “She wanted you to have the farm. She knew you loved it. But she couldn’t leave Abby out in the cold. She always hoped Abby would come home one day. She hoped you two would eventually get along.”
    “Me, too.” I look down at my hands, the worn silver key ring wrapped around my pointer finger. “Maybe we’re too much like our parents. Opposites. Momma always said Abby was just like our father.”
    “A dreamer with big ideas.”
    “Foolish ideas.” I tap my keys against my thigh. “You know, I really have tried. Before Momma died, I called Abby regularly with updates. When she came home for the funeral, I wanted us to reconcile. Even this time I was determined to make it work. But for some reason we always end up acting like we’re ten and twelve again. Bickering. Snapping at each other.”
    “Family relationships can be the hardest. But for some reason the good Lord puts these people in our lives when we never would have chosen them as friends. Iron against iron.”
    “Sharpening us? So we can kill each other? Sometimes I wonder what it would have been like, how different it might have been if Momma had remarried. Do you ever wonder, what if things had turned out differently?”
    “What if I didn’t have this limp? What if I’d chosen another profession? What if I hadn’t joined my father’spractice?” His shoulders slant at a stiff angle. “My relationship with my father was like yours and Abby’s—I wanted to set a different course.”
    “What else would you have done?”
    He shrugs awkwardly. “You’ll laugh.”
    “Maybe. But then I’ll get you to laugh about it too.”
    “Fair enough. I’ve always wanted to write a book.” He laughs before I can. Except I don’t feel like laughing at his admission. “I know. I know. Everybody wants to write a book.”
    “Write what? About law?”
    “Fiction.”
    “You want to be the next John Grisham?”
    “More like Tolkien.”
    This surprises me, but it also makes sense. I’ve seen his home, with stacks of books in every room. He keeps a novel in his bottom left drawer for when work is slow.
    “Well, you still could. What’s stopping you?”
    “Paying bills.” He chuckles and rubs his thumbnail along his jaw. “Just an old daydream. Don’t you ever—?” Abruptly, he leans forward, turns the volume knob up on the TV.
    “… on the leading edge of the storm and producing tornadic conditions. This is one big storm brewing, folks.” The forecaster’s tone is grim. “A super cell. And we’re starting to see rotation.”
    Otto! He’ll be cowering and quivering beneath the bed, his anxious brown eyes alert and watching for me. But before I can leap for the door, the civil defense sirens start to wail.
    Molly jerks the office door open, her eyes wide, her features stretched. “It’s a twister! Coming this way!”
    “Take cover.” Craig stands, leaning against the desk to gain his balance.
    “No.” I move toward the door. “I have to get home.”

Chapter Three
    The wind whips through Maize. Flags salute. A light pole at the end of the street bobs and weaves like it’s had a night out on the town. Tin cans rattle and roll from an overturned dumpster. A lawn chair clatters down the middle of Main Street, end over end. Rain lashes down, horizontal at times, swelling and cascading in waves. I squint up at the black clouds boiling over. Lightning zips in long, jagged streaks. Thunder follows right on its heels. By the time I’m inside the truck, my clothes are soaked. Water drips from my bangs. The