Zeni kept the file the detective had closed. Random break-in, it said. Spouse surprised the intruder. Case ruled solved. She read those words every night at the kitchen table, and every night she knew they were wrong. Someone had killed her husband on their anniversary, in their own home, and she meant to learn who. This morning she drove back to the station. She brought the photos she had taken herself, before the police released the cabin back to her. She wanted them to open the case again. The detective met her in the lobby. He did not ask her to sit. "Mrs. Zeni, we've been over this." "The lock," she said. "Look at the door. No scratches. No broken wood." She held up a photo of their front door, the red paint clean around the handle. He barely glanced at it. "Intruders pick locks. It happens." "He opened a bottle of wine first." Her voice shook. "Two glasses. You don't pour wine for a stranger breaking in." The detective handed the photo back. "The case is closed, Mrs. Zeni. The evidence fits a burglary gone wrong. I'm sorry for your loss. But I can't reopen it on a wine glass." She understood then. They would never look again. The word "closed" was final, stamped and filed. If anyone was going to find the killer, it had to be her. Zeni drove home. The cabin sat quiet, its wooden porch wrapping all the way around, the way her husband had loved. He used to drink coffee on that porch at dawn. Now the boards felt like a crime scene nobody would guard but her. She stepped inside. She had cleaned nothing. The two wine glasses still stood on the counter where the police had left them. One glass was empty. One was full. Zeni stopped. A full glass. Her husband had been killed before he drank it. But the killer had poured it. That meant the killer knew him. A stranger does not sit, open wine, and fill a glass for the man he came to rob. She pulled a notebook from the drawer. On the first page she wrote the word the detective had refused to write: Murder. Under it she wrote a short list. Everyone who had known about the anniversary. Everyone who had been invited to the cabin and never came. Her hand slowed on the third name. She stared at it. Someone on this list had sat at her table, drunk her wine, and killed the man she loved. Zeni closed the notebook. The police had shut the door. She had just opened a different one, and now she could not unknow what waited on the other side of it. She had a list. Tomorrow she would start at the top.