There it was just ahead. The side of the Conestoga mailbox was emblazoned with the name MOORE, and as he grew closer he could see that there was a body sprawled on the lawn, just to the side of the front porch. Del crept to the edge of the driveway, until he could see clearer. He’d been expecting to find Giggy Gastineau there, though not quite like this—splayed on her back with eyes staring glassily skyward, speechless for the first time in her life. She was still dressed in her best tweed suit and held her briefcase tighter in death than ever, clutching it to her chest. But it still hadn’t been sufficient to stop a shotgun blast. The silver pellets had simply punched a fist-sized hole in the genuine imitation leather before moving on to more vital regions.

He turned, looked at the house, and saw the shotgun barrels retracting into the basement window. And he thought he heard Mrs. Moore sobbing before the window clamped shut.

The boy hesitantly crossed the ground to where the realtor lay and nudged her with his foot to make sure she was dead—he didn’t want her jumping up while his back was turned. Then he approached the window and tapped the frosted glass with a knuckle. “Mrs. Moore? Don’t shoot. It’s me, Del Miller. I’ve got to talk to you.” There was no sound from within. “Please, it’s urgent.” He could feel the tears returning. “Please. My brother’s dead, and now they’ve got Mom!”

When Sharon spoke, the voice was right behind the glass. She’d been standing there all along. “Back away,” she said warily. The boy complied, and only then would the window open, just a crack, same as before. But from this close Del could see Mrs. Moore’s face, at least part of it. She looked haggard and spent, her expression spiderwebbed with lines of anxiety. The eyes behind her bifocals were puffed and red from crying and lack of sleep. She looked just on the edge, and her knuckles were already white on the trigger of the shotgun pointing his way. “Another trick,” she muttered, aiming right for his chest. Del realized her intent with sudden clarity and his jaw went slack and the false teeth he’d almost forgotten about went tumbling from his mouth. The sight took the woman by surprise, enough that the double barrels lowered a bit. Her finger eased on the trigger.

“It’s not real!” the boy was rattling as fast as he could, smearing the face paint and then showing her the pale smudge on his fingers. He kept at it, rubbing more and more away until his own facial pigment was more obvious. Obvious to him at least. Sharon’s eyes still held that hard glint of mistrust, and the shotgun didn’t lower any further than before. “It’s me!” he said. “I’m alive!”

“It’s another trick,” she said. “You’re trying to trick me.”

“Then here . . . touch my hand.”