Harry was looking at a hardcover of Five Little Pigs when the doorbell rang. He slid the book back into its place on the shelf and walked to the front hall. There was a tall figure visible in the frosted glass that ran along the side of the front door, and Harry felt a brief flutter of concern.

He swung the door inward. On the other side of the screen door stood a man in a tan suit. He was holding up a badge.

“I’m Travis Dixon with the Kennewick Police Department,” he said. “I’m looking for Alice Ackerson.”

“She’s not in. Can I help you?”

“Are you Bill Ackerson’s son?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Do you mind if I come in and ask you some questions? It pertains to your father’s death.”

“Okay,” Harry said, pushing open the screen door so that the detective could enter.

“Thank you—is it Harry?” he said as he stepped into the foyer, ducking his head slightly, and offering a large, knuckly hand. Harry shook it.

“It is,” said Harry. The shoulders of the detective’s light suit were speckled with rain. The sky was darker than it had been earlier that morning.

“Is there some place we can talk?” the detective asked.

Harry led him into the living room, where they sat on opposite-facing sofas. “What’s going on?” Harry asked.

“We got a preliminary report from the crime scene investigators this morning, Harry,” he said, hands on his knees. “And although we are not ruling out an accident, we are presently treating what happened to your father as a suspicious death.”

“Oh?”

“It’s inconclusive right now, but there is a possibility that your father was hit on the head before he fell off the side of the path.”

“You think someone hit him?” Harry said, trying to absorb what he was hearing.

“That’s what we think.”

“What does that . . . ?”

“What does that mean? It could mean many things. He could have argued with someone along the path. It could have been an attempted mugging, although your father was found with his wallet on him. It’s possible that some kid threw the rock that hit your father and it was a complete accident. We just don’t know. That’s why I’m here, just to ask you some questions.”

“Okay,” Harry said, then added, “Should I text my stepmother? Should she be here?”

“I’d like to hear from you right now.”

“Sure,” Harry said. He watched as the detective pulled a spiral-bound notebook and a pen from the inside of his jacket. Harry thought that he couldn’t have been more than forty years old, although he had a receding hairline, noticeable even though his hair was cut very close to his scalp. He had a long nose and thin lips, and his dark eyes were set deep in their sockets.

“Can I ask you some questions about your father?” he said.

Harry nodded.