“I’m still a little nervous,” she said, as she showed him around. “I don’t lie so good.”

“You’re not lying. You’re his fiancée. You have a key, you’re over here all the time. You check the house for him,” Skinner said.

“At three o’clock in the morning?”

“If somebody knocks, run upstairs and mess up a bed,” Skinner said. “You were sleeping over because you missed him.”

“Oh. Okay. If somebody knocks, I will.”

“If you hear his tractor pull in, for God’s sakes warn me.”

—

The man cave was decorated with mixed martial arts and Vikings posters, plus the centerpiece, a sixty-five-inch LG television that had fallen off a truck in North Platte, Nebraska, where Van Den Berg had been lucky enough to catch it.

To one side, next to a urine-scented half bath, were a beer refrigerator, plus two filing cabinets, as well as a homemade desk, constructed of two sheets of three-quarter-inch plywood cut in half lengthwise, glued back-to-back to make a thick, two-foot-wide plank, then painted black and screwed down to two carpenter’s sawhorses as legs. Sitting on top of the desk was an older Macintosh Pro computer with two screens and an ancient dot matrix black-and-white printer.

“Didn’t know Larry was into computers,” Skinner said.

“Well, he was going to be one of those day traders,” Fischer said. “He got some how-to CDs on day trading and he played them in his truck until he had them memorized. He borrowed five thousand dollars from me that I’d saved up for the wedding, and then he had another five thousand in savings and he put that in. He spent half of it on computer equipment and lost the other half five years ago. Lost it in two months.”

“Surprised it lasted that long,” Skinner said.

“Yeah, well—he was actually up, like, fifteen thousand dollars for a week,” Fischer said. “Then he got a letter from the brokerage he was using that said he owed a bunch of taxes. So, you know, he put it all on red and lost. He was getting letters from the IRS for three years.”

“That sounds like the Larry we know and love,” Skinner said. He was probing around the homemade desk. “He might have figured out how to day-trade, but he didn’t know anything about security.”

He reached out and tapped a piece of paper taped to the wall behind the desk.

“What’s that?” Fischer asked.

“All his passwords.” Skinner peered at them, and said, “Mostly porn sites. Plus, eBay.”

“Porn?”

“Let me get this thing up . . .” Skinner brought the computer up, dug through it, and brought up Van Den Berg’s emails. He spent fifteen minutes scanning through them. Fischer got him a beer, and one for herself, and finally she said, “I’m going upstairs to mess up the bed, but I want to see this so-called porn when I get back.”