“That’s a start,” I said, although I’d have rather held onto it myself. “Now there’s the business of Jeremy’s phone,” I said. “I’m guessing when he isn’t playing games he’s texting with his friends. He may also be telling people more than he should.”

Gloria laughed scornfully. “Good luck taking his phone away.”

She reopened the fridge and brought out the wine bottle.

Ms. Plimpton said, “Gloria, take it easy.”

“I’m fine, Madeline.” Gloria held up the bottle. “The only comfort I get around here is from this. None of you give a shit what I’ve—”

That was when we heard the crash. The sound of breaking glass.

Gloria and Ms. Plimpton let out short screams. Bob and I exchanged quick glances. The sound had come from the front of the house. I ran to the hall. Shards of glass were scattered across the marble floor, and in the midst of them, a fist-sized rock. There were narrow floor-to-ceiling windows on either side of the main door, and the rock had gone through the one on the left.

I flung open the door and saw a long-haired man—late teens, I was guessing—running flat-out to a vehicle idling at the curb. It was a blue van, the side door open.

Before the man leapt in, he glanced back and shouted, “Take that, ya fuckin’ big baby!”

Then he was in the van, hauling the door shut as the tires squealed and the vehicle lurched forward.

I started to run, but there wasn’t a hope of catching a look at the plate. The van was up the street and around a corner in seconds. It looked like one of those older GM vans, of which there are only about a hundred thousand in every town. And the rock-thrower was white, brown shoulder-length hair, maybe a hundred and eighty pounds. Jeans and a blue T-shirt. Not much help when it came to offering police a description.

I walked back into the house, where I found mother, aunt, and Bob Butler standing.

“Who was it?” Ms. Plimpton asked. “Did you see them?”

“A quick look is all,” I said.

What struck me as alarming was not what had just happened, but that all the commotion had not drawn Jeremy from the porch. Even if he’d tucked some buds into his ears, he still should have heard what had happened.

Without another word, I made my way to the back of the house again, marching straight out onto the porch. The screen door to the backyard was half open.

Jeremy was not there.

EIGHT

BARRY Duckworth got back into his own vehicle and pointed it in the direction of Knight’s, which was only five minutes away.

Along the way, he got stuck behind an out-of-state car that was being driven hesitantly. Brake lights coming on, then off, turn signal on, then off. The person behind the wheel of this blue Ford Explorer with Maine plates gave every indication of being lost.

When the Explorer stopped at a light, Duckworth pulled up alongside and powered down the passenger window. The driver, a man in his forties, put down his own window and looked over.