The pouring rain didn't stop Grace Shepherd from tending to her small flock of farm animals. The goats and chickens needed to be fed, and the stalls needed to be mucked. The dampness in the barn exacerbated her allergies, but the act of raking and shoveling the stalls was therapeutic. The goats bleated, nipping at her apron as she worked around them. When shooing them away didn't work, she would pat their heads, scratch their chins as they pressed against her thighs, then she'd tap their bottoms until they galloped away from her, giving her space to work. She repeated the act with most of the fifteen goats and kids roaming inside the pen.

After three years of hard work, the six-acre micro farm was finally self-sustaining. Diligence and a dose of obsessive compulsiveness helped her achieve her peaceful existence in the small town, west of Portland, Maine.

Grace heard the thud of a car door. The closing of a second door made her stand from gathering the fresh eggs in the coop. It was too early for proper company. She placed the warm eggs in the front pockets of her canvas apron and wiped her hand on her denim-clad haunches.

It was moments like this, when uninvited guests entered her land, that Grace wished she'd taken up Ethan Kline's offer to learn how to shoot a pistol. But she was far too fearful to hold one, much less shoot someone with it. She peered out the barn door, scanning who could be visiting so early in the morning. The rising sun had had yet to burn away the fog. Light rain began to fall. She could hear the drops fall on the barn's tin roof like fingernails tapping against a metal cup. Her raincoat hung on a rusty nail over the pen, the only touch of yellow to make an appearance this morning. She took a deep breath and stepped out of the barn to confront the trespasser.

Trespassers, rather.

A handsome man dressed in a dark suit stood near the hood of the driver's side of a black sedan. A giant of a man, he remained still as Grace's vision scanned his body—the broadness of his shoulders, the expanse of his chest to his boxy hips. Droplets of rain pelted his forehead. A quick fantasy of the man bare-chested, glistening from exertion as he writhed over her, invaded her mind. As quickly as the thought entered, she blinked it away. He stood still as she stared at him through narrowed eyes. His brows furrowed to mimic Grace's glare. Through the car's windshield, he motioned to his passenger.

Grace glanced over and saw the woman who stepped her sensible black heels out onto the gravel driveway. She was dressed in a similarly dark pantsuit, but her dress shirt was pink, an attempt to soften her severe attire. Instantly, a large navy umbrella shielded her from the rain. She kept her free hand high with an open palm, demonstrating that she wasn't a threat.

Grace widened her stance by placing a foot behind her for balance, in the event they tried to take her down. Her heart thudded in her ears and pulsed in her balled fists at her sides, visible to the visitors as a warning that she'd put up a fight, if necessary. "Can I help you?" she asked them, her voice husky from lack of use.

Tipping the umbrella back, the woman spoke. "Dr. Grace Shepherd?"

With a hand over her eyes, Grace shielded her face from the raindrops, analyzing their faces for a semblance of recognition. "Yes," Grace answered.

The man stepped around the car. He arrived at the woman's side. Grace's eyebrow rose, and she lifted her chin to glare at him. A mixture of fear and titillation coursed through her body. He was handsome, achingly so. With his height, muscular build, and chiseled features, he looked like a Roman statue, carved out of stone—but completely dressed in an off-the-rack suit.

"My name is Angela Yaeger. I'm with the Federal Bureau of Investigations in the Boston region." She pointed to the man. "This is Agent Drew Wolff from the Bay Area FBI." He extended a quick nod at Grace.

Grace's gaze lingered on his deep-set eyes, unable to see their color. Her hands slipped into her apron, gently grasping the warm eggs she'd plucked from the roost. She made sure to handle them lightly, cupping them in her hand as she would a man's genitals.

Raindrops caught in his lashes, making him squint. When his eyelids fluttered, droplets streamed down his cheeks. She followed the streams down his jawline. His jaw tensed under her gaze. She remained silent, looking at his full lips. She waited for him to say something, but he didn't. Flutters caused Grace to divert her attention back to Agent Yaeger.

Grace forced herself to focus on Angela's words: "May we speak inside?"

Grace stared at her. Despite knowing she'd done nothing wrong, her stomach lurched and flipped. She straightened her back, steeling herself before a confrontation. It wasn't unusual for her to receive calls from law enforcement, asking questions that could assist them with their investigation, but they'd never visited her home, certainly not the feds. "Can I see identification?"

Agent Yaeger nodded, reaching inside her blazer. She produced a wallet, extended her hand and walked a short distance before stopping a few feet away. Grace analyzed the badge. At the top was a small profile picture with FBI credentials. On the bottom, underneath the FBI director's signature, was a dull brass badge. Other than identification displayed in movies, Grace had never seen one in real life. She nodded in approval, and Agent Yaeger shut her wallet and tucked it back inside her blazer.

Agent Wolff arrived at Agent Yaeger's side, offering his badge for inspection. Grace glanced at Agent Wolff, locking eyes with him before she lowered her gaze to his badge. She read his name: Andrew C. Wolff. She looked up and observed his face again, verifying his name, soaking in his features. She wished the badge noted his marital status. As he closed the wallet, she observed a ringless finger, devoid of a tan line where a wedding ring would be. Grace motioned for them to follow her, beckoning him in particular.

Leading them toward the side entrance of the house, she listened closely as their footsteps crunched the wet gravel behind her. A million reasons for their visit swirled in her mind. But she determined that she'd done nothing wrong and wasn't privy to any information of wrongdoing.

The mudroom was warm from the wood stove. Before Grace entered the main house, she removed her yellow raincoat and rubber boots. She slipped her feet into her slippers. Agent Yaeger set her umbrella down. Agent Wolff ran his hands over his wet hair. Grace went to the kitchen, taking a couple of white flour-sack towels. She offered them to Agent Wolff.

"Thank you," he said, his deep voice rumbled, making her skin prickle and her cheeks heat. He pressed the towel over his face, then patted his jet-black hair, droplets dangling from the tips.

Grace walked to the wood stove. With a poker, she opened the door, stoking the dwindling fire. She took a log from the neat stack and fed the bright embers. It crackled and spit, roaring ferociously. A few sparks scuttled across the slate tile floor like a frightened mouse. When she finished, she closed the double doors. After a cleansing breath, she turned to them.

The agents stood in the center of the great room, looking around at the sparse decor. Agent Yaeger had smoothed her meticulous bobbed haircut. Agent Wolff awkwardly held the damp towels in his hand. She reached out to take them from him. He glanced down and handed them over. Their fingers touched, and Grace felt as if she were burned by the devil himself. Instead of a sheepish smile, Agent Wolff pursed his lips. Grace could tell he was trying to stop himself from frowning.

Grace ran her fingers over her brown hair, attempting to tame the wiry curls that frizzed and shrank uncontrollably during the humid spring season. She twisted the locks into a thick rope, coiling it into a bun. She noticed how Agent Wolff looked at her manipulate her tendrils. Wiping away a raindrop from her brow, she frowned, mimicking him.

"Nice home," Agent Yaeger said. She smiled briefly, but then the grave look returned to her face.

"Thank you," Grace said and extended her hand toward the sofa. "Sit, please." When they complied, she sat in her favorite armchair near the fire, absorbing the warmth after the chill brought in by the agents. "How can I help you?"

"We're sure our visit comes as a surprise, Professor, but we're here on a delicate matter," Agent Wolff began.

Grace maintained eye contact, finally noticing the color of his eyes. His deep blue eyes revealed nothing, but she could stare into them all day. "I don't consult with law enforcement."

"We're aware, but this case is unique," Agent Yaeger interrupted, leaning in. It was evident by the timbre of her voice that she was playing the role of the good cop, the one who was supposed to make Grace break and comply.

"It wouldn't make a difference. I'm happy with my role at the college. Anything you want to learn can be gleaned from my various publications—"

"This is about your father," Agent Wolff interrupted.

Agent Yaeger put up her hand, stopping him from continuing.

"Collin?" Grace cut her gaze at Agent Wolff. She then looked at Agent Yaeger. "What about him?"

"We have the unfortunate responsibility of informing you that your father died at his estate, the Glen, in northern California." Agent Yaeger refrained from going into details. She kept her hands clasped on her knees, remaining sullen as the news slowly sunk in. When Grace didn't respond, she continued, "Were you aware of his passing?"

Grace shook her head, biting her lip. Her stomach roiled with the news. She turned to stare at the fire. A loud pop of dry wood permeated the quiet room. After taking a deep breath, a sense of relief invigorated her. "How?"

"How?" Agent Yaeger asked.

"How did he die? I assume it wasn't the usual passing of a..." Grace calculated in her head, "A healthy fifty-eight-year-old man."

"No, ma'am," Agent Wolff answered. Ma'am—she hated that moniker. She grimaced at the word. Her students used it with wild abandon. At twenty-eight, she was no matronly "ma'am." He watched for her reaction; receiving none, he continued, "He was murdered."

Murdered? Grace coughed, choking on the news. He's dead...and he was murdered. She staved off a smile. A quick sense of remorse for feeling joy over his passing made her cover her face, veiling her feelings. "I don't know how I can be of any help," she said in a muffled voice.

"We're hoping you can give us some idea about your father's...business," Agent Wolff asked.

Agent Yaeger turned to him, giving him a chastising stare, no doubt.

Grace folded her arms and sunk into the chair. "I've never had anything to do with his business. As you may already know, I've lived in Maine since I attended college locally. I haven't returned to California in ten years." She shrugged, looking at her pink fingers. After all that time away from him, the coldness in her body was finally seeping out of her bones. She finally felt warm and alive. "I haven't spoken to him in that time."

The agents looked at each other. They seemed to communicate through stares and pursed lips.

"Do you know who would want to murder your father?" Agent Yaeger asked.

"I don't." Grace rocked herself in the chair, the eggs in her apron bumped against each other.

Agent Wolff rubbed his bottom lip while looking down at the farming and cooking magazines on the coffee table. "Ms. Shepherd, are you aware of who inherits the Glen upon your father's death?"

Grace shook her head. She didn't care about inheriting his vast estate. The only thing she cared about was his promise to answer the one question she'd been asking since the moment she could form a coherent sentence. When she'd asked him for the information, he'd often said, "Over my dead body, Gracie." She smirked at the memory.

"I don't know, nor do I care," she answered, glaring at Agent Wolff.

Agent Yaeger raised her hand, her fingers splayed. "We understand that..."

Grace narrowed her eyes at the woman, observing her gentle demeanor. "Why are you here, Agent Yaeger?"

"Pardon?"

"Agent Wolff is more than capable of delivering the news of Collin's untimely death—rather, murder—but I don't see the point of an agent from Boston accompanying him." Grace crossed her legs and held her knee to keep from fidgeting. "Are you here to soften the blow?"

Agent Yaeger gave a slight frown. In a gentle tone, she said, "This is my region, so we thought—"

"We? Or maybe, he thought it would be best that I get the news from another woman..." She glared at Agent Yaeger's impassive face. "Thinking I'd puddle to the ground in tears over his tragic passing." Grace didn't care to hide the condescension in her tone. She tipped her head to glance at Agent Wolff, who sat stoically. "Or maybe he thought I had something to do with it and that your feminine approach may get me to confess?" Grace narrowed her eyes at Agent Wolff. "We're all too smart to go through this good-cop-bad-cop routine."

Agent Yaeger slid to the edge of her seat. "We don't suspect that you have anything—"

"Of course, you suspect me. Everyone close to a murder victim is a suspect, especially his child. I never wished Collin any harm. I chose not to communicate with him. I chose to live three thousand miles away from the Glen."

"We hope you can help us," Agent Wolff said.

"You want names of suspects," Grace said, tucking her leg underneath the other and rocking herself with one foot on the wood plank floor.

"Yes." He watched her movements, expressions, and seemed to analyze her degree of guilt.

"How did he die?" Grace asked while staring at him.

"Do you grow hemlock on your farm, Professor Shepherd?" Agent Wolff asked.

She locked eyes with him. "It grows in the wild in New England..." She lifted a dismissive hand in the air. "As it does in most of California." She bit the inside of her cheek. "Is that what killed him?"

"Autopsy and initial toxicology reports claim he had small levels of Conium Maculatum, poison hemlock, in his system."

Grace nodded, then said, "A small amount may kill a human. Even touching it can be deadly. Collin loved to tend to his garden and knew his plant species. I don't think he'd consume it or even allow physical contact."

"There were traces of it in a decanter of wine found in his room." Wolff paused, taking time to form his next statement. "He had a heart attack while suffering respiratory distress."

"Death takes an hour or two, depending on dose and size of the human. Collin had many attendants. Why wasn't he promptly treated?"

"If you haven't spoken to him for a decade, then how would you know he had attendants?" Agent Wolff asked. Grace had no response. "Besides, there is no antidote."

"No, there isn't, but there are treatments...dialysis, IV, ventilation."

"Pardon me, Professor Shepherd, but you're not a medical doctor," Agent Yaeger noted. "If you had nothing to do with his poisoning, then how do you know so much about treatments for hemlock poisoning?"

"I learned it from Collin."

Agent Wolff raised a brow. "Your father taught you about hemlock?" He looked as if he would jump out of his seat and handcuff her on the spot.

"I was homeschooled. One of the components of my education was botany," Grace said, staring squarely into his blue eyes. He didn't look away, and she didn't waver. "He was well aware of all poisons in nature. We had livestock and birds who wouldn't go near those plants and flowers." She raised her hands, encompassing the room, the farm. "It's why I decided to have my own farm. I grow lavender, raise bees, care for livestock. I wouldn't be good at tending my land if I didn't know every nuance of homesteading."

The agents looked at each other. Agent Yaeger frowned at Agent Wolff. She shrugged slightly.

"Do you know if any family, friends, or close associates would want him dead?" Agent Wolff asked.

Grace contained a smirk. Her initial impulse was to throw her hands in the air, but she restrained herself, smoothing her palms against her worn apron skirt. "No family. No friends. Just followers. And I don't know enough about them to give you a name."

"That's what I'm here to ask you about."

"Agent Wolff, Collin always had several attendants at his beck and call," Grace said. "They could be suspects. They could tell you who could have poisoned him."

"We've questioned everyone, Professor Shepherd."

"Even Web, Collin's butler?"

Agent Wolff nodded. "The butler claimed he didn't do it." He didn't laugh or smile. His serious demeanor seemed to be his default position. "We have yet to verify his alibi, claiming he was away at the time. We haven't had a chance to question him in full."

"That must be why Web didn't call me." Grace bit her bottom lip, deep in thought and gazing at nothing in particular. "So, he didn't have his usual attendant. Then anyone could have poisoned him... What was he doing at the time?"

A wisp of black hair fell forward as Agent Wolff seemed to consider how much to share with Grace. "He was with a woman."

"Was he having sex?"

Agent Yaeger grimaced. Grace noted how her chest warmed, rising to her cheeks like mercury in a thermometer.

"Yes, he was," Agent Wolff admitted. "We weren't able to get much out of her."

"Was she a...follower?"

"We don't know. We were hoping you could tell us."

"I wouldn't know. I don't know of Collin's dealings or the women, or men, he's with."

Agent Wolff cleared his throat. Grace watched as he raked his fingers through the dense follicles, pressing them back. "We're having trouble gathering information in that regard."

"I bet you are." Grace smirked, thinking of how Collin had never had a life partner when she'd lived with him. One person was never enough for Collin A. Shepherd. "Other than the hemlock and wine, was there anything else in his system?"

"The combination of hemlock and Sildenafil caused his heart to stop within minutes of consuming the poison."

"Sildenafil?"

"It's medication for erectile dysfunction," Agent Yaeger answered.

Grace chuckled. The agents watched her cover her mouth as she stifled a laugh. "Well, he died the way he lived." She slapped her thigh. The fresh eggs rattled in her apron pockets. She gently pressed her hand against them, stopping them from colliding and cracking against each other. "I'm going to need some coffee. Anyone want a cup?" She stood from her chair.

"Please." Agent Yaeger nodded.

Agent Wolff shook his head.

After his rejection, Grace said, "Don't worry, Agent Wolff. No hemlock here." She winked, demonstrating her true coquettish nature. He didn't react or respond. A small smile formed on her lips before she turned toward the kitchen. From her peripheral vision, she knew Agent Wolff watched as Grace set the brown, green, and peach-colored eggs in a bowl on the counter. She liked knowing he was watching her. A little shiver coursed up her spine as she worked about the kitchen, preparing coffee. Then it hit her—Collin was dead. Murdered. And instead of breaking out in tears of grief, she suppressed her emotions. It was the Shepherd way.