“Please . . . keep talking to me.”

Now he was the one clearing his throat. “The Jeremiah guy invited me to come work for the government. He said he was with the military and they were looking for guys like me. I was all, ‘Farm boys? Y’all looking for redneck farm boys?’ And I’ll never forget it . . . He stared right at me and said . . . ‘You’re not a farmer, Isaac.’ That was it. But it was the way he said it—like he knew a secret about me. Whatever, though . . . I thought he was a moron and I told him so—I was wearing mud-soaked overalls and a John Deere hat and work boots. Didn’t know what the hell else he thought I was.” Isaac glanced over at Grier. “He was right, though. I was something else. Turned out the government had been monitoring sKillerz online and that’s how they found me.”

“What made you decide to start . . . working . . . for them?”

Nice euphemism.

“I wanted out of Mississippi. Always had. I left home two days later and I still have no interest in going back. And that body was of a kid who’d run his motorcycle off the road. At least, that’s what they told me. They switched my ID and my Honda for his and there you go.”

“What about your family?”

“My mother . . .” Okay, he had to really clear his throat here. “Mother had moved on from us before she died. Pop had five sons, but only two with her. I never got along with any of my brothers or him, so leaving was not a problem—and I wouldn’t approach them now. Past is past and I’m okay with it.”

At that moment the front door opened and from down the hall, her father called out, “Hello?”

“We’re back here,” Isaac answered, because he didn’t think Grier was going to: As she checked the security system, she suddenly looked too self-composed to speak.

As her father came into the room, the man was the opposite of his daughter: Childe was unraveled, his hair messed up like he’d been tearing at it with his hands, his eyes red-rimmed and glassy, his coat off-kilter.

“You’re here,” he said to Isaac in a tone full of dread. Which seemed to sugget whatever mind game Jim’s buddy had played out front hadn’t just been for show.

Nice trick, Isaac thought.

“I didn’t tell him why I wanted him to come,” Grier announced. “The cordless phone isn’t secure.”

Smart. So damned smart.

And as she remained quiet, Isaac decided he’d better drive the bus. Focusing on the other man, he said, “Do you still want a way out?”

Childe looked over at his daughter. “Yes, but—”

“What if there was a way to do it where . . . people”—read: Grier—“were safe.”

“There isn’t one. I’ve spent a decade trying to find it.”