I drove off the shoulder and took an extra sharp turn so Sam rattled inside the box like a melon. We drove straight to Billy’s house, a small but nice place in a quiet, middle-class neighborhood. It was kind of on the sleepy side, but kind of on the snooty side, as well.

The Fuller house was a one-story rancher with green shutters and matching trim. I parked a few doors away and left the head behind with the windows rolled down for air. I needed both of my hands to work. This was dangerous work, not fucking football.

There was only one car in the Fuller driveway, a rundown, older model sedan. In fact, of all the houses on the block, the Fullers’ looked the worst. It was obvious there was trouble inside. Homes have a way of outwardly showing the distress of their occupants. Whether it’s an unkempt lawn or a thick layer of pizza menus on the doorknob, I’ve found that people always have ways of crying out without actually making a sound.

I tapped lightly on the door. Nothing. I tapped again, then rang the bell. Within seconds I heard movement, a muffled female voice, and the door being unlocked from the inside.

A middle-aged woman wearing a Denny’s waitress outfit answered the door. She had a pretty face, but wore a tired, haggard expression. You didn’t have to be a psychic to read this one: divorced, trying to survive on her own and keep the house by going back to work. Waitressing was the only thing she could find and it was killing her. Plus, she had Billy for a kid. I felt bad for her.

As soon as she saw me, she slumped and sighed.

“Oh dear, what’s he done now?”

She thought I was a cop. I let her. “Maybe you can tell me, ma’am.”

“Call me Doris,” she said. “Come in. I was just making some Sanka.”

It was a normal house in every way, but oddly dated. The living room was off to the right of the foyer. The entire color scheme was dull orange and brown. There was a TV, a couch, a lima bean–shaped coffee table, and a painting depicting a snowy lake scene with a gold frame frosted with white. It screamed Better Homes and Gardens circa 1977. It reminded me of the house I grew up in. As soon as I saw the giant wooden fork and spoon hanging on the kitchen wall, I felt right at home. We sat down at a small, round, Formica-topped table while Doris Fuller poured two cups of steaming hot instant joe. I couldn’t take my eyes off the wallpaper. It was yellow with a velvet paisley pattern.