But the energy had turned strange at home. Harley sat alone on the porch steps. Taylor vaulted from the Charger and hustled away toward the barn to feed his rabbit, a bedtime chore.

Harley said, “Dylan’s upstairs. He won’t open his letter.”

Her phone buzzed and she ignored it.

“What do you mean?”

“His apology from Taylor. He won’t open it. He got into bed and we were talking about the field trip tomorrow, about the bus ride, how the bus was going to stop so they could feed the goldfish at Elmo Pond. He got real quiet, and I thought maybe he’s thinking Elmo Pond is kind of near where you found the body yesterday. But I doubt he even knows that, or cares. I said, ‘Isn’t it great that Taylor can go along with you tomorrow?’ I said, ‘Let’s see. Show me your brother’s letter. Let’s see what he wrote to you.’ But Dylan won’t open the letter. I might have pushed him too hard. He started to cry.”

She slumped down beside her husband on the front porch steps. Her phone buzzed again—a text this time, from Denise—and she looked at it with some small sense of relief. Finding Jim Golly from the air would be quicker and safer. It would allow her to plan without alerting him.

Yes from Crockett Crop Dusting. Meet at the airfield in Lansing, Iowa, 4:30 AM tomorrow.

She leaned her head against Harley’s shoulder.

“Dylan is protecting his brother.” He sighed. “I guess. But I just don’t understand why he needs protecting. Gosh. I mean, what’s out there?”

CHAPTER 32

Jump! the voice had commanded Sammy Lamb of God.

This was hours ago now, and miles ago, he thinks—unless he’s gone in circles. After she had taken the ladder away, he had watched the valley sink in shadow and the sky catch fire. The melon plants where bones were buried had disappeared behind fog rising from the creek. He had watched Faith and Papa and the dog walk the old man at the point of a rifle. Across the black grasses and closing meadow flowers he had seen three heads, then two as the old man went down.

Jump!

He had jumped from the roof. He had landed on the beaten earth. His leg bones had jarred up into his hips, his hips into his spine, and his neck had snapped back. He had been stunned, pain shooting through his ankles up his shin bones, his head filling with a sick, dull ache.

Run! the voice had commanded.

He had gathered his backpack and begun to limp aimlessly along the dirt path that led to the cistern.

Run which way? From what?

Something had crashed through the tall meadow grass, coming toward him. The dog. Two gunshots had cracked and echoed overhead.