In the front of the house, the blinds were lowered, and light glared out between the slats. It was such a tall house, such a big house, and there was so much light for just two people. Something about that much light unhinged a trapdoor in Shaw’s brain, and the blackness beneath that trapdoor swirled with half-formed thoughts and fears. He skipped the front door. Walking up to the front door right now, tonight, with all that light bleeding out of the house, felt like he’d be painting a target on his forehead.

Instead, Shaw followed the drive around the house, passed the detached garage where Tucker kept his Beamer. The Caravan didn’t merit a place in the garage, apparently, because it sat at the end of the drive like a whipped dog.

Shaw let himself through the gate in the fence, took the three steps up onto the porch, and paused. The windows in back had their blinds raised. On the other side of the glass, the kitchen and the living room were flooded with light. He couldn’t see anybody, not yet, but he heard voices.

“I was at work,” came one of them. It sounded like somebody doing a bad imitation of North—the voice having gone through some kind of chemical wash that left only the tight fiber of fear. “I swear to Christ, I wasn’t—”

The pop wasn’t a gunshot, although after the night’s events, Shaw’s pulse still kicked like a racecar. And then there was another, and another. They came so fast and so close together that, at the conscious level, Shaw was still trying to figure out what they were. Deeper in his mind, where that trapdoor had swung open, the black waters roiled, and Shaw’s stomach dropped because he did know. Kind of.

“Like last night?” Pop. That was Tucker’s voice, only harder than Shaw had ever heard it. “Like fucking last night when you came home with fucking booze on your breath, smelling like fucking cigarettes? And now tonight, the same thing?” Pop. “Smelling like a fucking beer can.” Pop. “Like a fucking ashtray.” Pop. “I’m surprised I can’t smell the fucking jizz on you.” Pop. “I’m surprised I can’t smell the fucking cum-dump sewer you’ve got for a cunt.” Pop. Pop. Pop.

North staggered backward into Shaw’s line of sight, hands held up. Shaw couldn’t see his face, could only see the familiar lines of his shoulders and his back and his arms, but all distorted now, all mangled into curves and hunches that Shaw had never seen before.

Tucker followed. He had something in his hand that looked like a belt, but it wasn’t a belt. It was leather, Shaw guessed, and at full length, it was probably three feet long. Right then, Tucker had a portion of it coiled around his fist, and as Shaw watched, Tucker brought his arm back and snapped the leather toward North. It clipped the back of North’s hand with another of those soft pops. And suddenly all Shaw could see—the rest of the world blacked out for a moment—were the years that North had come to work with his hands taped, with split knuckles, with broken weals across the backs. Years. Years.