“If it was Peter’s bat, how did it get into someone else’s hands?” Serena asked. She spoke so softly that she was almost whispering.

“You’re assuming it did.”

“Well, you said someone else’s fingerprints were on it.”

“Yes, that’s true,” he admitted. “Someone else had it. Someone who killed Laura. That was the only explanation that made sense to me all these years.”

“How did the bat wind up at the murder scene?”

Stride remembered. He saw the bat again in his mind. Close up. In the field.

“The rain came,” he said. “We all went running. The storm was severe. Everything turned black. It sounded like a train, the way a tornado does. I went to the woods to find Cindy and Laura down by the lake. Peter was on second base, and he took off as the storm hit. As I ran for the trail, I saw Peter’s bat lying in the weeds. He must have forgotten all about it. So anyone could have picked it up. There were a lot of guys with us in the field.”

“But?” Serena asked, hearing him hesitate.

“But I remember thinking that Peter was going to come back for that bat.”

Stride was distracted, watching Cindy and Laura go. He was anxious for the game to be over. He could still taste her lips, which always tasted the same way, like a cherry Popsicle. When they kissed, they were connected, electricity passing between them. He had an erection, thinking about what they would do later. If they really did it. If she really meant it. He could tell she was nervous. He wondered if she had brought Laura with her as a shield, so that she had an excuse not to go all the way. As the two girls disappeared into the trees, though, he saw Cindy look back at him, and her face told him that nothing had changed. She wanted him. She was waiting for him.

He glanced at the black sky. Time was short. He hit the pocket of his mitt impatiently. Dave McGill was at the plate, and he kept tipping foul balls that dribbled to the edge of the field, where Raymond Anderson, who was the catcher, had to retrieve them. Stride thought they should call the game right now. He could taste rain, and he already felt the sky leaking drops onto his face. No one else paid any attention.

McGill finally struck out. Peter Stanhope took his place, swinging his silver bat theatrically, sporting an arrogant grin. Stride didn’t really know Peter, other than by reputation. They weren’t friends. They didn’t hang out together. The only thing they had in common was baseball. The longest conversation he could remember having with Peter was about Rod Carew.

Peter swung violently and missed. Strike one.

Stride saw a bright flash and imagined Peter’s bat, held high over his head, attracting the current like a lightning rod. Less than five seconds later, thunder washed across the field in a drum roll.