Back on the interstate, she just let him talk, loving the sound of his voice. He’d always been like this, as far back as she could remember: at eight and nine, he’d sit at the breakfast table before school and tell her everything he’d learned the day before; at fifteen and sixteen, he seemed to bypass the sullen teenage years entirely, never hiding away in his room, never cutting her down with a comment, or fighting her over homework, or girls, or going out. They’d definitely had their moments, times when they’d irritated one another, when Ethan snapped, when Jo did, but they were rare, certainly in comparison to other parents she’d talked to. She didn’t know if she’d just struck lucky with Ethan or whether his good nature, his relative calm, was somehow tethered to what had happened to his father. He claimed not to remember much of that night, of clawing at Ira’s body in the hours before Jo got home late from another shift, but she often worried – irrationally, like parents so often did – that the memory had lodged somewhere deep and was just waiting for the right moment to come out.

They stopped again after about three hours and had breakfast in a dust-blown diner at the side of the freeway. Ethan ordered a three-egg omelette with bell peppers and Swiss cheese, Jo the corned-beef hash, and as they waited, they talked some more about the year ahead, about Ethan living on campus, about his plans for the holidays.

‘I don’t think I’m going to make it back home for Thanksgiving, Mom,’ he said, a mouth full of food. ‘That sort of round trip, it’s just too much hassle for a weekend.’

‘Absolutely.’

He gave her an apologetic look and then searched her face for signs he’d upset her. She gave him nothing, not wanting him to feel in any way bad. If being a cop for twenty-seven years had taught her anything, it was how to sustain a good poker face.

‘Save the turkey for Christmas, okay?’

‘Sure,’ she said, and winked at him again, her standard response when she was hurting. She didn’t blame him for not wanting to come home on Thanksgiving, it was simply that, for the first time since Ira had died, she’d be spending it alone. Ethan ducked his head slightly, as if trying to read her again, a movement that reminded Jo of Ira, of moments when Ethan was still a kid and Ira would give Jo pep talks before work. You’re a pioneer, honey. You’re out there in your wagon, crossing those plains by yourself, having to deal with all the dangers of unexplored territory. She always remembered that one. He’d called her Davy Crockett, just with better hair.

‘What’s up?’ Ethan asked.

Jo realized she was smiling.

‘Oh, nothing,’ she replied. ‘I was just thinking about your dad.’