With the box in her fist, Patience Goodgolly burst from the car. Lifting her dress hem, she galloped across the burnt grass and up the porch steps. She opened the door without shocking herself and slammed it behind her.

Deputy Luck approached the sheriff’s window.

“Keep her here and keep her safe.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Let’s work on ‘Yes, Sheriff.’ ”

“Yes, Sheriff, sorry.”

“You might want to park in the shade.”

“Oh. Right.”

“No radio or phone in here. If you need help, you’ll have to call from the road.”

“Infection is our biggest worry,” said the nurse hustling after Sheriff Kick down the intensive care unit hallway toward Gabriel Goodgolly’s room, “but it looks like he’ll recover.”

“He has some things to explain.”

“He’s on heavy pain meds.”

“I understand,” the sheriff said. She stopped at his doorway, turning on the nurse. “Some private things to explain.”

Inside Goodgolly’s room, she carefully parsed the setup on his IV stand. None of it looked new to her. She glanced over her shoulder toward the door. Then she pinched off his painkiller drip and waited.

Within two minutes, the man’s blue eyes came fearfully open. Again she glanced toward the door, then bored her eyes back into his. They flickered side to side, as if searching.

“Yeah, you,” she assured him. “This is Bad Axe County Sheriff Heidi Kick, Mr. Goodgolly. Guten tag. I’ve been learning things about Patience.”

She showed him his pinched-off drip.

“Do you feel me?”

He shut his eyes.

“You’re going to answer some questions.”

He turned his head. She snatched a handful of rough gray beard and turned it back.

“I’ve got a whole menu of criminal charges, Mr. Goodgolly. I’ve got murder, assault, kidnapping, incest, rape, and I haven’t even turned the page yet. Let’s start with who you are.”

He turned his head again. She yanked it back.

“Your name.”

He winced. His lips parted.

“Gabriel.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Gabriel Goodgolly. Before the Lord.”

“That’s not going to do it. I know about the property deed. Are you Jim? Or Jon?”

“Please…”

Please? She flared hot. “Have you been raping your daughter or your niece?”

He swallowed hard and stayed silent.

“Same charge either way, so let’s move on. Tell me where the babies are.”

This time she let him roll his head away. She watched his tears without sympathy. His hands—swollen joints, spotted skin, fingernails like claws—clenched the sheets.

“Answer me.”

He whispered something.

“Louder.”

“I’m Jon. Jon Golly.”

“That’s a start. And what makes you the ‘good’ Golly, Jon?”

He winced. Beneath the sheet his back arched, then resettled.

“Jim,” he said.

Her phone stirred: a text message from Deputy Luck.

“It’s Jim that makes you the good Golly? Where is Jim? What has Jim done to be the bad one?”