Chapter 7

They went back down the aisle together. Coyle was standing at the folding table with Ellis Boatwright and, to Hollis's surprise, Adelaide Marchetti.

She had come in without anyone noticing. Addie was seventy-four, silver hair cut short, in a quilted vest and rubber boots, and she had the same flat, unhurried way of standing that her father had. She had driven in from Lexington when Sonny called her, and she had listened to Coyle's version of the morning first, because that was how she did things.

"Devin tells me there's been a misunderstanding," Addie said.

"There's been a theft," Coyle said. "And I want it handled quietly, for the farm's sake. We can sort out the paperwork after the sale. There's no reason to drag buyers into -"

"Dr. Reyes," Addie said, without looking at him. "You have something for me."

Alma set the binder on the table and opened it to the mare's registry page. She put the scanner beside it. Then she put the security log down, and the consignment sheet, and finally the tag itself in its plastic bag.

Hollis stood at the end of the table with his cap in his hands. He had worked for this woman for forty-four years and had spoken to her maybe two hundred times, almost always about a horse.

"Start with the log," Addie said.

Alma did. She read the four badge scans out loud, with the barn letters. She put her finger on Barn A, Stall 3, 3:05 a.m., and then she put her other hand on the treatment notes for the scouring foal, dated the night before, signed by her.

"Mr. Coyle's note says Barn B, Stall 6," Alma said. "That's the yearling's stall. But Mr. Renn was never in Barn B last night. He was in Barn A with a sick foal, and the log proves it, and so do I, because I was called out at two in the morning and I treated that foal myself at three fifteen."

Addie looked at Coyle.

"Then the tag," Alma said. She picked up the consignment sheet. "Lot 114 is a chestnut filly in Barn C. The tag in Mr. Coyle's possession this morning is numbered 114. It was found in Mr. Renn's jacket, which Mr. Coyle reached into himself, in front of forty witnesses, without permission and without a warrant."

"Are you accusing me of something?" Coyle said.

"I'm reading from your own sheet," Alma said.

Coyle turned to Addie. "This is ridiculous. She's a vet. She doesn't run this farm. I have buyers waiting, I have a sale in three hours, and this man -"

"Devin," Addie said. "Sit down."

He didn't sit down. He stood there with his folder and his polished boots and his face going redder, and Hollis watched him decide, in real time, to double down.

"You want to talk about the tag board?" Coyle said. "Fine. Ask him what he was doing at the tag board three weeks ago. Ask him why he was standing there at six in the morning with the yearling tags in his hands. Because I saw him. I saw him right there, and I said nothing, because I didn't want to believe it either."

The aisle went quiet.

Hollis looked at Coyle. Then he looked at Addie. Then he said the only thing there was to say.

"I was coming in from the foaling barn," he said. "You were the one at the board, Devin. With tags in your hands. You laughed and said, 'Early worm.'"

Coyle's mouth opened.

"And I went to bed," Hollis said. "That's what I did three weeks ago. I went to bed."

Addie Marchetti turned and looked at Devin Coyle for a long, long moment. Then she reached over, took the consignment sheet off the table, and held it against her chest.

"Ellis," she said. "I'd like to talk to you about a few more lots."