"Now. Your son. Where is he?"

"I can't–"

"You will. Your son. Or you burn. This whole place burns."

She sobs, cries out: "He's innocent!"

"Innocence is a fable." Harriet lights the flame but holds it away, then slowly draws it closer – like a mother playfully bringing a spoonful of food to a stubborn child. "Tell me where your son is, or you can die amidst the wails of your filthy cats."

"North Carolina," comes Frankie's voice from behind them. Harriet frowns and backs away, flipping the lighter closed and extinguishing the flame.

Mrs. Gaynes loses the tension in her muscles and just flops forward, moaning, crying.

"How do you know?" Harriet asks.

In one hand, Frankie's got a can of generic ginger ale, which he takes a delicate sip from, as if to make sure his lips don't touch any secret cat shit germs. In his other hand he holds a postcard, which he waves around.

"The stupid dickhead sent her a postcard from North Carolina, and the equally stupid old broad hung it on the fridge like it was his third grade art project. Postmarked a week ago." He frowns and reads the postcard again. "He's been sending her money, like she said."

Harriet takes the postcard. Looks it over. On the front, Greetings from North Carolina! The name of the state plays host to mountains, the ocean, some city hall. On the back, Ashley writes, Mom. In a town called Providence. Not far from Asheville. Met somebody who will join the team, help me meet my sales quota. Soon moving on to bigger and better. Get well. Will send money again soon. Love you. Ash.

"Well," Harriet says, disappointed. "That concludes our business here."

She knows she should be pleased. They have the answer they need with a minimum of effort. No bodies to clean up. And fire is a chaotic, uncontrollable element.

And, yet, sometimes you just want to burn an old lady.

"Ashley," the old woman mutters.

Harriet tries to find a way to pull her mood out of its tailspin. She thinks of sticking it to the old woman, of telling her the truth about what her son does for a living, but the old woman probably already has a sense of it, and besides, Harriet just feels tired.

Instead, she simply says: "Kill her, Frankie. I'll be in the car."

Outside, Harriet taps the postcard against the palm of her hand.

From behind her, two pops. Frankie's gun.

That, she reminds herself, is Frankie's gift. Every tool in the toolbox has its function, and this is Frankie's. He cleans up messes. Maybe he complains. Maybe he's squeamish. But, for now, he does what he's told and she's thankful for that. Harriet knows that dispatching the old woman wouldn't be something she could do – not because she doesn't have the stomach for it, but just the opposite. She has too much heart for it. She'd make it last. She'd enjoy herself.

Frankie emerges from the house looking like nothing happened.