“You just have the money on you in the morning,” Bart said over his shoulder as he clambered up the ivy-covered fence to the right of the gate. The creeping vegetation gave purchase to his hands and feet and in just a few movements he was at the top and leaning over into darkness. He dropped to his feet on the other side with hardly a sound. “Your turn, Delbert.”

The boy leaned his face between the bars. “I don’t know if I can make it over, Bart.”

“Oh, come on,” the older Miller scoffed. “I’ve seen you go up trees like a squirrel.”

“It’s kinda high—”

“Look, you little shit,” Bart growled, barely keeping his voice to a whisper. “I gave you a chance to cut out but you said no, so get your ass over the fence. Or go home.”

Del started to pout but caught himself. Mom wasn’t here to give in, and Bart would only get angrier and the others would taunt him and call him a little baby. Straighten up, he cautioned himself, turning his anger inward. He went to the wall without another word and scrambled up the vines like a monkey, then over the top and into the trees. Bart halfway caught him as he tumbled to the other side.

Tommy ran up to the gate and pressed his face against the bars and in a deep voice said, “Good night . . . boys,” and gave them a gibbering, maniacal laugh. Doug and Larry joined in, as the three piled back into the Thunderbird and gunned the engine. It lurched forward with a spray of dirt and gravel, and the Miller boys watched after them, until even their taillights blinked out of sight.

Del listened to the quiet for a moment. “How come I’ve suddenly got this feeling we’re in deep shit?”

“We’re gonna be fine.”

“Are you serious?” He looked at the shadowy woods around them and whispered, “You know the Danner stories—”

“Forward and backward,” Bart finished, “and that’s just what they are. Stories. And if you’d read more of the paper than the funnies you’d know that already. It was on the front page this morning, with tonight supposed to be the anniversary of the murders. The Herald did some research and found out it’s all a bunch of hogshit. Sebastian Danner never chopped up his wife and brother—least there’s no proof of it. No police report. No investigation, no search of the grounds. Nothing. The article said the Danners probably just moved to Europe or outta state.”

“Doesn’t mean it didn’t happen,” Del said skeptically, “just that nobody ever found out about it.”

“You beat everything, you know that? You’d almost think you were trying to scare yourself.”

“I wouldn’t have to work at that,” the boy replied with an involuntary shudder.