The kids, Billy, the biggest, was six; his little sisters, Daisy, five, and Lori, three, were on the living room floor, caught in the dim blue glow of the TV. The sound was low as Wile E. Coyote chased the Road Runner in vain, but Fortin heard the lyrics almost underscoring what was happening, the “beep-beep” and something about never learning.

Fortin had taken stock and could only imagine what these children had seen and heard from Lyle. He’d asked them if everything was okay, prompting three little heads to give him big nods.

But he could smell and hear the truth.

Lyle was snoring on the sofa. Reeking, empty beer bottles stood like broken promises on the coffee table.

In the kitchen Trudy sat at the table, gripping a steaming teacup with both hands, as if to keep them from shaking.

After he’d stopped asking about her cut, he asked about their situation and she began nodding. “We’re going to be okay. We’re not going anywhere. We’ll talk to the bank. We’ll work it out. We’ll be fine.”

Fortin knew these were the lies Trudy had to tell herself, and it broke his heart because she’d refused offers of help, offers to talk to social services, to talk to a counselor.

That was the first call.

Fortin looked at the time and his location. Now he was a little more than fifteen minutes away.

He checked his shoulder microphone and reviewed the second complaint from five months ago. He remembered it well. Trudy had called. Lyle had been drinking. Again. He’d been suicidal. She’d taken his keys, especially those for Lyle’s guns. She’d collected the kids and had gone to their neighbors, the Starners. That was smart. In responding, Fortin’s plan had been to see to Trudy, and then he’d visited Lyle.

At the Starner place, he’d pulled up behind Trudy’s Toyota.

Wayne Starner, a retired farmer, had come to the door. Edna, his wife was in the kitchen comforting Trudy, whose collar-length red hair was messed. She was wearing a man’s plaid coat over her shoulders, a flannel nightgown, jeans and woolen socks. Blood stained the roses on the dish towel she was holding to her face.

Fortin wanted a closer look.

Trudy removed the towel. Her lip was split, her left eye was discolored.

“What happened?”

“He was drinking. I’ll be all right when he sobers up, but he’s talking about shooting himself. I’m so scared. I think he means it. The bills have been piling up. Collection agencies keep sending people to our house. He can’t go a day without drinking. It seems like we’ve always been struggling. The ranch has been in his family for three generations.”

“I’ll call an ambulance,” Fortin said.

“Don’t. Please, Will, don’t,” Trudy said. “I’ll be all right.”