Devlin's Light by Mariah Stewart

they run checks on Manning and Hatfield as soon as possible. She pushed the play-back button, just to hear Nick’s voice one more time before she hit the pillows.
    And hit them she did, hard and fast and grateful, almost joyful, to be doing so. No files to read tonight. No statements to run through, over and over in her mind, searching for exactly the right inflection to make a key point, the most apropos expression for delivering a thought she wanted the jury to recall, the correct body language for commenting without words on a statement of the defendant. Not tonight.Tonight she would sleep. Habit lifted her arm toward the alarm clock, and she smiled broadly, remembering that she would not need it. She would sleep until her exhausted body told her she could get up.
    The aroma reached out to welcome India even as she climbed the back steps of the house on Darien Road. She stood in the doorway and breathed it in, certain what the dark blue enameled pot on the stove held. Dropping her suitcase and her bags, she crossed the well-worn yellow pine floor and lifted the lid.
    Aunt August’s New England clam chowder. Fresh chopped clams and potatoes, onions and bacon. A cholesterol-counter’s nightmare of butter and cream. She peeked in the oven, where a loaf of bread was baking to golden brown perfection. On the counter a pan of fresh gingerbread, still warm and fragrant, rested upon a wire cooling rack next to a bowl of homemade applesauce. All in all, it smelled like her childhood, like comfort. The very scents had the power to refresh and restore her.
    “Ah, there you are, Indy. I thought I heard your car.” Aunt August came into the kitchen through the doorway leading to the back stairwell, which led from the pantry to the second floor.
    India returned the firm embrace her aunt offered, holding the older woman for a second more than she had in a long time. August’s hair was flattened slightly on one side, and her usually crisp white oxford shirt—sleeves, as always, rolled to the elbows—was a little wrinkled.
    “Were you napping?” How unlike her aunt, she of endless energy, tireless of mind and body.
    “Just a catnap, dear.”
    “Why?” India’s eyes followed the beloved face before it dipped down to peer into the oven, checking on the progress of the bread.
    “Why?” August chuckled. “Because I was tired, India. That’s why most people seek rest.”
    India couldn’t recall a single nap that August had taken in all the years they had lived under the same roof. She recalled the recurring migraines, and a tingle of fear pricked the back of her neck. “Aunt August, are you all right?”
    “India, this will come as a great shock to you, I know,” August said, trying not to smile, “but I’m not as young as I once was. And life is more hectic than it has been in years, with an active six-year-old to keep up with. Goodness, we have homework to deal with again. Granted, it’s usually no more than a few letters of the alphabet to print in a little copybook every night, but it’s still homework. And all the parents are asked to volunteer to do something with the class, so I go in once a week during story hour and read a book.”
    August busied herself with removing the bread from the oven while India leaned against the counter under the weight of guilt that pressed against her. She should be tending to Corri’s schoolwork and volunteering in the library, not Aunt August, who had never borne a child of her own, yet had raised her brother’s children with love, and who now was blessed with the task of raising the child of a woman she hadn’t even liked. As much as August loved the child, raising Corri might well prove to be more than August could handle.
    “I’m sorry, Aunt August,” Indy said as she tossed her keys on the counter. “It shouldn’t all be left up to you. I should be doing some of those things with her. I should try to be more of a… a parental figure.”
    “Rather difficult to do,