For a few seconds the world seems to shudder on its axis. A couple of hours ago I learned my mother would lie on the stand to protect my father. But now I realize she’s been lying to me. How could that deception possibly help Dad? Who could it protect him from, other than me? But then the answer comes to me: my parents believe they’re protecting me by keeping me ignorant of my father’s insanely desperate act.

“Daddy?” says a small voice.

Annie stands watching us from the end of the hall. I want to comfort her, but I can scarcely get my mind around what’s happening myself. “Where is he, Mom? Tell me.”

“I don’t know,” she says, hurrying to Annie’s side.

“Is that the truth?”

She looks back at me in surrender. “Yes.”

“Do you have a way to reach him?”

“No.”

“I don’t believe you.”

She hugs Annie and whispers something in her ear.

“Why do you look so mad, Daddy? Is Papa okay?”

“I’m not mad, baby. Please go back to the kitchen for a second. We’ll be right there.”

After my mother whispers something else, Annie reluctantly obeys.

I step closer to my mother so that I can keep my voice low. “He’s jumped bail?”

She nods.

“How long ago?” I ask, trying to compute how much time has elapsed since I called earlier. “Two or three hours?”

“I think he left just after lunch. I’m honestly not sure.”

I feel like a man blinded by some injury, suddenly having his bandages ripped off. I spent the second half of this day working on the assumption that I’d have the opportunity to try again to persuade Dad to save himself, and that Quentin Avery might help me do that. But the truth is that my father jumped bail hours ago, and probably fled the city. Maybe even the country.

A primal blast of fear surges through me. Two days ago, Viola Turner was murdered in her sickbed. Last night Glenn Morehouse was murdered almost the same way. Tonight someone tried to kill Henry Sexton. Right after that, Special Agent John Kaiser asked me if I could protect my “folks” until the FBI arrives tomorrow. I said I could. What the hell was I thinking?

“Mom, pack a bag. Right now. Clothes for three days.”

Her eyes go wide. “What?”

I take her arm and start leading her up the hall. “We’re in danger. All of us. When was the last time you talked to Dad?”

“Around noon,” she says, trying to hold her ground. “Wait!”

“We can’t. Pack the bag and bring your pistol. Don’t take more than five minutes. Annie and I will be in the kitchen.”

She stops. “Penn, I can’t leave this house.”

“Why not? Is Dad going to call you here?”