opened.
An older man stepped out.
Tall.
Thin.
Gray beard.
Federal field jacket.
He looked up the slope like he had known exactly where she would appear.
Lily’s chest tightened.
The man raised both hands so she could see he held no weapon.
Then he said the one sentence no stranger should have known.
“When you were little, your mother called you June Bug because you kept jars full of lightning bugs beside your bed.”
Lily stood very slowly.
The man’s eyes shone.
“I’m Daniel Voss,” he said. “And we
