“My Thunderbird?” His eyes widened and his head swiveled toward the old barn as though he might be able to see it from where he was standing. “What about it?”

“The…the windshield is broken. Shattered.” I heard the tears in her voice even though I was standing twenty-five feet away. I ducked slightly, moving behind a flowering bush.

“What?” He pulled her to the side of the patio, nearer to where I was listening in, and through the foliage, I saw the people who had been standing nearby turn back to their own conversations to give them some privacy. I gently moved the brush aside, watching as Mr. Swanson gripped the front of his hair in his hands, shaking his head. “How in the hell did that happen?” he yelled. Emily’s shoulders curled forward, and she hung her head. I could see most of her father’s face, and his expression went through several stages of anger.

“I was in the old stable,” she said. “I just wanted to see your car decorated. Sorry, Dad.”

His jaw clenched and he spoke through barely moving lips when he said, “Sorry? Sorry? You asked if you could walk out to the Mattices’ old stable, didn’t you?”

Her head hung lower. “Yes, Dad.”

“And what did I tell you?”

“You said no.”

“That’s right. I told you explicitly that you weren’t allowed in there. Sorry isn’t good enough, Emily Nicole. In fact, this is the final straw in a string of poor choices and unacceptable grades. You will stay home this weekend and you will—”

“I broke your windshield, sir,” I said, stepping out of the brush and coming to stand next to Emily, who pulled in a surprised breath as she lifted her head and turned toward me. “It was an accident, but…it was me who did it.”

From my peripheral vision I saw Emily’s mouth fall open.

“Tuck? You broke my windshield?” Mr. Swanson asked. “How? How in the hell did that happen?”

I stuck my hands in my pockets. “I hang out in there sometimes. In the old barn. I dropped a hand weight from the loft. It landed on your windshield. I’m sorry. Emily was only there because I asked her to come see it. She thought you’d take it better if she broke the news to you. But it was me who did it.”

“What’s this?” my father asked, coming up next to me.

“I broke Mr. Swanson’s Thunderbird windshield,” I muttered. “It was just an accident.”

“An accident?” my father exclaimed. “How does an accident like that happen? What were you doing in the old stable anyway? Jesus H. Christ, Tuck—”

“Rand,” my mother said, approaching my father and putting a hand on his arm, obviously having heard what was going on. “Let’s all calm down. We can figure this out.”