She wrinkles her nose. “My mama says we aren’t trespassers, either. She says we’re debt collecting.”

“I don’t mind that you’re here. I just thought the house was empty, so I wondered who you were, that’s all.”

The little girl crosses her arms, stiff in the puffy sleeves of her snowsuit, her hands frozen into mitten-shapes. “I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.” Then she pauses. “Well, I guess what mama said is not to talk to strangers in town, but she never said anything about strangers in the woods.”

“Oh.” Lance winces. “Um, yeah. I’m sure the same rules apply to strangers in the woods.” They probably ought to apply especially to strangers in the woods.

She scowls at him. “That’s a stupid thing to say when you’re the stranger and you’re the one talking to me. Are you a kidnapper?”

“No.”

“So, what’s even your point?”

“I’m not a kidnapper.” He pauses, considering that’s probably what a kidnapper would say, if asked. “But you shouldn’t take my word for it.”

She grumbles something that sounds like “Grown-ups,” obviously aggrieved.

There’s a shout behind her. The girl turns that way. “That’s Mama.”

“You’d better go, then. And remember, don’t talk to strangers in the woods.”

She gives him a completely unimpressed look, then turns and runs, snow boots thumping.

When he imagines the little girl reporting a stranger in the woods to her mother, he supposes the adult thing to do would be to walk out to the house and introduce himself. Lance can see the old house in snatches through the trees. In the yard, the source of the smoke reveals itself: a metal barrel, the contents of which are burning. A young woman, maybe no older than Lance, stands beside it, dropping an armload of something into the climbing flames. The child in her purple snowsuit runs up to the figure of the woman, and as Lance watches, the woman’s head jerks up and she stares toward the trees.

He should walk over and explain himself, but instead he hastens to hop back down the bank and walks fast toward the Chase side.

For some reason, the image of the little girl’s face is lodged in his mind. There was something familiar about her, even though he also knows for certain that he’s never seen her before.

Chapter Sixteen

Robbie

Nine years ago.

Every time Robbie has to speak to Lance’s father, he gives himself a long lecture first. His inner voice alternates between sounding like his dad and sounding like Megan—the two voices of reason he’s been lucky enough to have in his life. Obviously, he never had the opportunity to talk through the conundrum that is Lance Taylor with his dad, but Megan has listened to him rant time and again. He’s never had any hard evidence that Lance’s father is a complete waste of air, certainly never from Lance himself. But it’s obvious Lance doesn’t get everything that he needs at home.

Today is Danny’s thirteenth birthday party, and Lance has been home sick for three days. Last year, Robbie finally convinced Lance to take a cell phone that he could keep for emergencies, and now he’s used it to text Danny and tell him that he can’t come to the party. An illness that would come between Lance Taylor and sugar in one of its purest forms—birthday cake—much less the chance to celebrate with Danny, must be serious enough that he should be in a hospital.