“Take the keys?” He shook his head vigorously. “Heck, no! I climbed the fence and was going to sneak into the barn but I just had this . . . this weird feeling. I can’t really explain it. I looked over my shoulder at the house and there was Mr. Wells, sittin’ in his rocker, a rifle on his lap, starin’ at me.” Stephen took in a deep breath. “It was weird, Mom. Really weird. So, so I—I took off.” He looked at the floor and blushed. “I was scared and I ran and Miles was really mad and . . . he threatened to beat the—er, tar out of me.”

“And that’s why you couldn’t admit that you were there?” she asked.

He nodded mutely, tears of mortification causing his eyes to glisten.

“Oh, honey—” She wanted to enfold him in her arms, but didn’t dare. The look he shot her warned her to keep her maternal instincts under wraps.

“And you never saw him again?”

Stephen shrugged. “I don’t think anybody did,” he whispered in a voice that was barely audible over the hum of the refrigerator, the bubble of the simmering sauce and the stutter of the woodpecker tapping at the oak tree outside the window.

“Why didn’t you tell the police?”

“I said, I was scared.”

“So am I,” she admitted, tapping the wooden spoon on the edge of the saucepan. She believed her son, but wished he’d come clean earlier; that he’d trusted her enough to confide in her. The timer chimed, reminding her to check the coals she’d lighted in the barbecue.

“Mommy?” Christina’s voice filtered through the doorway just as the little girl, dragging her blanket behind her, toddled into the kitchen.

“Well, look who woke up.” With a smile, Tiffany picked up her daughter and placed a kiss on her crown. “Are you still a sleepyhead?”

“No!” Christina snorted out the word and rested her head on her mother’s shoulder.

“Yeah, right,” Stephen muttered under his breath as he plucked another grape from the cluster in the bowl and tossed it into the air before catching it in his mouth. “Grumpy Gus.”

“I’m not a Grumpy Gus!” Christina grouched.

“Shh! Of course you’re not, sweetheart.” Tiffany sent her son a look that would cut through steel. “Your brother was only teasing you.”

“He’s a big . . . big . . . dumbhead.”

“Oh, wow, like that’s a problem,” Stephen mocked. “A dumbhead, Chrissie? Is that what I am?”

“Enough!” Tiffany said. “Come on, sweetie, you can have some grapes while I put the chicken on the grill.”

“I hate grapes.”

Tiffany set Christina into a chair at the table and Stephen, on the other side, had the audacity to cross his eyes.

“Lookie what he’s doing. I hate you, too, dumbhead.”