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if she were acting in one of those sitcoms on TV in which everybody was young and had complicated, chaotic lives that could make you laugh yourself silly if you enjoyed that kind of thing, which Lance definitely did not. But that was how Chrissy was acting. He hadn’t noticed that sort of behavior from her before and wondered what it stemmed from. At the same time Lance sensed something unapproachable just below the surface. Was this something new?
    “An undercover assignment?” she repeated. “For the U.S. Forest Service?”
    “Of course not. I’m first and foremost a police officer, and I was the one who found the murdered tourist near Baraga’s Cross last summer. I’ve been involved in the investigation all along.”
    Chrissy still had strands of hair twined around her fingers, but she’d stopped moving her hand. Her eyes were big and shiny. Was she on the verge of tears? There was something else about her look, something different, but maybe it was simply the fact that she was no longer a child.
    “Does that mean they haven’t caught the killer, after all?” she asked in a low voice.
    “All I can tell you is that . . . there are a few, what you might call, unresolved issues in the case.”
    “Did they arrest the wrong man?”
    “That’s a possibility,” said Lance.
    “So is the trial going to be postponed?”
    “Listen to me, Chrissy. I’m not supposed to discuss any of these things with you. Do you understand that?”
    Chrissy nodded.
    “The only reason I’m telling you about this is because you . . . well, you saw me. It’s absolutely essential that nobody finds out I’m here. All right?”
    “Okay.”
    “If anyone hears about this . . . I can’t go into detail about what might happen, but we’re talking about a murder case, a life sentence and everything, right?”
    His niece nodded. She still had her fingers stuck in her dyed black hair, as if there were so many thoughts swirling through her brain that it had completely forgotten about her hand. Her other hand was lying passively on the table. Lance reached across to grab her hand as he stared into her eyes.
    “You can’t tell anybody,” he said urgently, keeping his voice low. “But if you do, keep in mind that you’d be breaking the law and you could end up in court. Do you hear me?”
    He added the latter comment on impulse, based on the simple fact that Chrissy was here, in the Kozy Bar, where most of the regulars wanted nothing to do with the police.
    “Jesus! Let go. I won’t say anything,” she replied, pulling her hand away.
    There was something in the tone of her voice—partly indignant, partly resigned—that gave Lance a feeling that she was used to such things. Used to being grabbed and spoken to in such a harsh manner.
    “By the way, what are you doing here?” he asked.
    “Just came in to talk to a few people.”
    “Do you realize what kind of place this is?”
    She gave him a withering look, as if what he’d just said was too lame to warrant a comment. Another example of the overacting that she’d displayed before, as if she had a repertoire of set facial expressions for every emotion: resignation, astonishment, despair, surprise, and so on.
    “Don’t you have school tomorrow?” asked Lance.
    “Sure.”
    “But how are you going to get back to Two Harbors?”
    “Drive, of course.”
    “You borrowed a car?”
    “Yeah. The Freestar.”
    “Do your parents know you’re here?”
    “No. And they don’t know that you’re here, either,” she said defiantly.
    “You’re not in some kind of trouble, are you?”
    “What the hell, Uncle Lance? Why don’t you just chill! Besides, I’ve got to go. They’re waiting for me.”
    “So you’re not going home?”
    Chrissy took her cell out of her pocket and glanced at the display.
    “It’s five forty-five,” she said. “Don’t you think I can stay up a little later?”
    “As long as you make it to school in the morning, I guess.”
    “Man, what’s wrong