I clutched Kyle’s hand and then they called us for our flight. We were in first class again, so I glanced over my shoulder and saw the warning woman, the left edge of her face, hiding behind a tall businessman, far back in the crowd, waiting to board, watching us.

Watching me. And then she was gone when I blinked, and I wondered if she was even there.

18

Grant

Peter Horvath arrives right after the local television stations have set up their vans outside Danielle’s house. They’re two houses down on the cul-de-sac, and with the Sheriff’s Office in command, Peter has had to park farther down the street and show a driver’s license to the deputy on duty.

Grant watches from an upstairs window.

He thinks the camera crews and reporters are parked in front of Danielle’s house because they don’t know better. They don’t yet know that Danielle’s boyfriend lives a couple of streets over, on a different curve of the greenbelt, and that is where Danielle’s son is. The reporters will knock on doors, looking for quotes or comments, and someone will mention her boyfriend lives here in the neighborhood. Like a dummy. Grant’s a kid and he knows better than that.

And he wonders, maybe the police don’t tell them, because when a woman dies they look at the men in her life. Her teenage son. Her boyfriend. Her boyfriend’s son.

I’ll have to talk to the police about the bad thing your dad did.

Just words. Words that don’t mean anything. And when he knows who this person is, he can tell his parents and they will fix it. Won’t they? All he knows is if he goes to the police with the accusations, it’s like turning on his dad. And he knows his dad would never hurt Danielle.

The deputy waves Peter through.

Mom, with her mom radar, has already arrived at the front door. She opens it before the doorbell rings. Grant stands at the bottom of the stairs.

“Peter,” Mom says. “Sweetie, how are you?” She hugs Peter, although Grant can tell Peter does not like to be hugged.

“Hi, Mrs. Pollitt,” Peter says. Today he’s in an MIT hoodie, jeans, Vans shoes. He looks tired. “I’m all right.”

“How are you holding up?”

“Fine,” Peter says. He always talks so softly, like he’s worried he’ll make a ripple in the world.

“You don’t have to be fine with us, you know,” Mom says, and Grant wants to say, Mom, just give him some space.

“I have to be strong for Dad and Ned,” Peter says. “I mean, I’ve never known anyone who was murdered before. How am I supposed to feel other than sad?”

“Angry,” Grant says.

“Maybe later,” Peter says, and something in him saying that makes Mom hug him again, and Peter endures it again.