Dennis had been really angry about it, but then he got to ride home in a squad car with another deputy, and that had been pretty cool. His dad didn’t let him get into his squad car. He didn’t want Dennis to mess something up, was what he had said the first two thousand times Dennis had begged to play in the car. The two-thousand-first time Dennis had asked, his dad had lost his temper. Dennis hadn’t asked again.

“No, she wasn’t,” his father said, popping a couple of Excedrin from a bottle on the counter. “We put her in the hearse and they took her to the funeral home.”

Dennis’s mother scurried back and forth from the refrigerator to the stove, banging pots and muttering under her breath as she hurried to heat up a pork chop. His father picked up the cigarette his mother had left burning in the ashtray on the table and took a drag on it. The television on the counter was showing a guy spray-painting his bald spot.

“Mendez wants to call in the FBI,” his father said to no one in particular. “Prick.”

His mother said nothing.

“Why don’t you want the FBI, Dad?” Dennis asked.

“Because they’re a bunch of pricks—just like Mendez.”

“He’s a spic prick,” Dennis said, proud of his cleverness.

His father gave him a look. “Watch your mouth.”

His mother wheeled on him. “Dennis, go to bed!”

She looked like her eyes were going to pop out of her head, like in a cartoon when one character had his hands around the throat of another character, choking him.

His dad turned on his mother then. “Cook the damn food! I’m hungry!”

“I am!”

He looked at her like he was just now seeing her for the first time since he had walked in the room. His face twisted with disgust. “You couldn’t wear something better than that?”

Dennis’s mother grabbed her old blue bathrobe together just below her throat. “It’s the middle of the night. Was I supposed to put on a dress and makeup?”

“I’ve been at a murder scene all night. You think I want to come home and look at this?”

Dennis’s mother reached up and shoved a big messy chunk of hair out of her face and behind her ear. “Well, I’m sorry I’m not up to your high standards!”

His father swore under his breath. “Have you been drinking?”

“No!” she exclaimed, looking shocked. “Absolutely not!”

She yanked the frying pan off the burner, dumped the pork chop on a plate, and all but flung it at the table. “There. There’s your fucking dinner!”

His father’s face turned purple.

His mother’s face turned white.