Lacey was almost overwhelmed by images again, of how Jeb had convulsed and cried out, of how he'd glared at her right until his last breath rattled out of his dying lungs. Lacey sat up in one quick movement but kept her head down, holding steadfast onto the image of her grammy, of the hand-knitted blanket she would hold around their shoulders and the wide, scratched wedding band on her ring finger, of her callused hands, strong and capable, but equally good at unknotting tangles in hair or coaxing out splinters. The picture of her grams was far stronger than the picture of the dead man, and Lacey rubbed at her eyes to ingrain that image into her head, rubbed and rubbed until dancing phosphenes floated on the black backdrops of her eyelids. She smiled. 'Francies,' her grandmother had called them. They were there to remind you that, even in the dark, there was always something to be found.