“I’m not so sure they’re effective. And I think they’re pretty painful.” I was feeling so tired, and developing a headache. Although I’d not been all that hungry, given what I’d seen this evening, the lack of anything in my stomach was taking its toll.

“I’d just like you to think about it, that’s all. Lots of people have them, and it doesn’t make them criminals or anything. Lots of my friends do, and I know grown-ups who’ve got them, too. You know Mr. Drennan, the math teacher? He’s got this little butterfly on his arm, and there’s this guy in Grade 9, his parents let him get this guitar tattoo on—”

We were pulling to a stop out front of Andy’s. I said, “What does your sister think of this? You don’t see her pestering me for permission to do this.” Paul often turned to Angie for the guidance and wisdom her many years afforded her.

“Jeez, Dad, she’s already got one on her—” And he saw the dawn of surprise in my eyes and stopped. He opened the door, said, “See ya,” and bolted for Andy’s place.

I didn’t have time to think about where Angie might have a tattoo. I sped home, killing the lights of the Civic as I pulled into the drive. When I turned the key in the front-door lock, the bolt didn’t slide home the way it usually does. Paul had been the last one out when we’d gone over to the school, and I couldn’t recall seeing him lock it. But then again, Angie might be back from the mall and just hadn’t locked the door when she stepped into the house.

No one listens to me.

“Angie?” I called as I stepped in. I turned off my cell and left it and my keys on the table by the door, and walked into the kitchen. “You home?”

There was no answer. I called again, louder this time: “Angie!”

No one called back. But I could hear noises coming from the kitchen. The opening of the fridge, the clinking of bottles.

“Sarah?” Maybe she’d come home early. No, that wasn’t possible. Her car wasn’t in the drive, and she’d called me from the office only moments ago, when I was in Ms. Wilton’s class. “Who’s there?”

I walked past the door to the study, where the purse stuffed with cash was still stowed, and into the kitchen.

It was Rick, leaning up against the dishwasher, drinking an Amstel from our fridge. He was in his jeans and jean jacket, which he wore over a black T-shirt. Heavy black boots stuck out from the bottom of his worn jeans. He was smiling enough for me to see that one of his front teeth was chipped.