“Hey, Cloris, I need some—”

She heard a woman’s excited voice on the other end of the line talking right over him. She saw him grin, sit back, and listen. Finally, he was able to grab the conversation. “Thanks for all that, Cloris. Yes, what you said, that’s close to what happened. I’ll stop by the hospital to see Penny later. I’ll bet her husband, Tommy, was ready to tear down the hospital he was so scared. That’s great news, though. Okay, Cloris, now it’s my turn.”

He asked her about IAFIS, frowned at her answer. “Okay, but let me know the minute you hear, all right? I’ll be in later.”

He hung up the phone. “I’m sorry. But there’s no word yet from IAFIS. Still, it is Sunday morning, to be fair about it. Those Rob’s jeans?”

She was standing at the sink, washing dishes, listening to him tell her he still didn’t know who she was. And then, what did he say? She whipped around and gave him a blinding grin. “Rob kindly loaned them to me. You forget how skinny boys’ butts are. They’re pretty tight.”

He smiled, stared into his coffee mug.

“Did you ID the men? Tell me what happened.”

He shook his head. “No, we didn’t. The truck was a fireball, but we were able to identify it. It was reported stolen from a dealership in Richmond yesterday. The men had no ID on them, and they were badly burned. Identifying them will take longer.”

“It might not be possible,” she said.

“That’s true. How do you know that?”

She shrugged. “It seems logical, particularly if you don’t have much to work with. A Beretta is too big for me. I don’t like to use them.”

His eyebrow shot up, but he remained silent. She gave a start at what she’d said and began twisting a dishcloth, frowning.

He threw Brewster a small piece of bacon. “What gun do you prefer?”

“A SIG. It has a little kick, but it’s really well made and accurate.”

He nodded. She didn’t seem to find anything odd about describing her gun. Who was she?

“I’m sorry I endangered your boys.”

He said mildly, “You were protecting my boys, keeping them safe and distracted. I really appreciate that.”

“I know I should have been out there with you, not hiding behind a dresser. You’re very kind, Sheriff. In my experience, not a lot of sheriffs are like you.”

“You know a lot of sheriffs?”

“Well, there was this guy in North Carolina who—” She broke off, shook her head. “All I know is I wanted to smack him. Isn’t that strange? I saw a glimpse of his face—all smirky, filled with attitude—but now it’s gone.”

“What were you doing in North Carolina?”

“I haven’t the foggiest idea.”

He rose and walked to her, laid his hand on her shoulder. “Try not to be scared, Madonna. It won’t be long now until you know who you are. As for the rest of it, we’ll find out who those guys were, then we’ll figure all this out, don’t worry.”

Dix left for the sheriff’s office before the boys were up and didn’t return until the middle of the afternoon. When he walked in the door, he sloughed off his coat and gloves as he walked into the living room. “It’s finally stopped snowing. Maybe this’ll be it. The sun even came out on the way home.”

Both Rafe and Rob were on him again. He hugged them and waited for them to break away, which they did soon enough, to hurtle more questions at him.

“We heard about that live wire that could have fried Claus’s leg.”

“What about that huge burning tire that was coming right at you?”

“And those guys who tried to shoot Madonna—nothing left but burned-up skeletons!”

“So someone’s been telling you all about it, huh? I’m hearing some bits of exaggeration there. I told you the important stuff last night. You guys got your homework done?”

“Ah, Dad,” Rob said. “It’s Sunday. We’re going sledding on Breaker’s Hill again.”

Rafe said, “Don’t you remember, Dad? We finished with Othello Friday night. Madonna beat the wadding out of us at Scrabble. We learned a new word—lichen.”

Dix opened his mouth to answer when he heard a car drive up. Now what? He looked at her and called out, “Your name’s not Madonna. It’s Ruth.”

“What? What did you say? My name’s Ruth? Ruth what? Who am I?”

There was a knock on the front door. Normally Dix would let the boys answer, but the previous night was still too fresh in his mind. He picked up a barking Brewster and strode to the front entry. “Warnecki,” he shouted over his shoulder. “Your last name’s Warnecki.”