“Around and around the pool your son goes,” Belle continued, “walking faster and faster.”

She sucked a hot-on-hot breath through her cigarette.

“Then he runs up behind Becky Rilke-Rickreiner and, boom, he shoves her into the water. Two hundred pounds easy, grease and all, freaking tidal wave. It’s only three feet deep, but she thrashes around screaming like either she’s going to melt or she’s going to drown. She gets out, and guess what? She calls 911.”

Sheriff Kick glanced toward the building. Poor Denise, she thought, taking that call. BARRY HER’s bride had a five-hundred-dollar fine coming, at least by law. You don’t call 911 just because you got wet—unless your husband is running for sheriff and you want to start something. The sheriff hoped Denise had let it slide. She made a mental note to Oppo: YES. She would reply right away. YES, I WANT YOUR HELP.

She looked back at Belle.

“And?”

“And nothing. We came here to turn ourselves in.”

Harley’s mom said this bitterly. Her bikini top tied in the middle, and she lifted a string from it, bent her neck, and mopped above her eyebrows.

“Mom, what’s wrong?”

“Now we’re going home to run through the sprinkler.”

“Good idea. But is something else wrong? Are you mad at me for something?”

“Assuming you even have a sprinkler,” Belle accused.

“We do have a sprinkler. It’s hanging on the wall with the tools in the barn. Mom—”

“If he was one of mine, I’da whupped him good right there.”

“Thanks for the advice.”

“Folks talk.”

“I know.”

“You couldn’t have written a better campaign ad for Prickreiner. And you don’t even have your own ads. Seems you won’t do a damn thing to save yourself.”

“I’m busy, Mom, actually doing the job. I didn’t plan to campaign until September. But I know. I see what’s happening. I know I need to do something.”

She turned away from Belle and rolled open the van’s sliding door, getting a double good deal: her beloved boys, and a blast of cool air. Taylor glowered over a Sprite can, half-crushed while he still drank from it. Dylan, his twin, observed cautiously.

“Hi, guys.”

She kissed Taylor on the forehead. She kissed Dylan, then she kissed Taylor once more. His temper was one thing, his struggle with impulse control. That seemed normal enough for his age. It was his premeditation that troubled her and Harley. Last Saturday, to “accidentally” injure his brother, he had chosen the weed hoe, the one with the sharp triangular point. Dylan must have said something, she and Harley agreed. But neither boy had wanted to explain.

“We love you,” she whispered into Taylor’s small ear.

He twisted his head away.