They had never run out of things to say when they lived together. It was the phone that did it. Austin was completely at ease on the phone—except with this stranger, his father, who had left that other stranger, his mother. Austin said, “Dad, Macey and I have been researching this project.”

“Who?” said his father.

His father did not know Macey. It seemed impossible.

But then, Dad never stayed the whole month of July, when Austin and Mom visited. Dad hardly stayed more than a weekend. He wasn’t fond of his in-laws.

“You know Macey’s grandparents,” said Austin. “Putnam and Leandra Macey, they live on the other side of Shell Road from Grandmother and Grandfather? Macey’s mother is Cordelia Clare? And their daughter was named Macey for that side of the family?”

“Oh, right. Little girl. Dark eyes. About ten.”

“Well, she probably was ten when you saw her last, Dad, but now she’s almost sixteen. Macey stumbled on an ancient crime, Dad. An arson. It was committed December fourth, 1959, and it was the burning of a barn apartment on Shell Road.” His voice was giving way. “The apartment was occupied by the first black teacher in town, and the fire was set to drive him away, and maybe to kill him.”

“That’s horrible, Aus,” said his father. “I never heard about that. Where was this barn?”

Austin told him the piling up of half facts and half guesses, but long before he got to whether Grandfather set the fire, long before he quoted Mom (it doesn’t matter if your grandfather set the fire; he’s guilty), Austin spilled the truth of his own fire. Venita, Isaiah, Davonn, Chamique, Macey, Lindsay, Grace. Hamlet. The Church of the Good Shepherd. Macey’s hair in flames. His T-shirt smothering and saving her. The lies they’d agreed to tell and the reasons they’d agreed to tell them. Venita’s murder. Dorothy Edna Loomis’s letter. Macey. Helping her research something he knew perfectly well they should not be researching.

“You went through that without me?” said his father, stunned. “Oh, Aus. I’ve been such a lousy parent. I’m sorry, Aus.”

“Dad,” said Austin, “when do I come home? What’s going on? What are you and Mom doing? Where is everybody going to live? Grandfather and I had a lot of plans for the summer, Dad, and … but …” He felt shaky, as if he hadn’t eaten for days. “What’s happening, Dad?”

It was not slang, that “What’s happening?” It was his heart.

His father said, “How about if I fly in this weekend and visit, and you and I’ll talk?”