He wags his finger at me. “You are starting to become a conspiracy theorist.”

“I believe the word you’re looking for is ‘realist.’ ”

He grimaces. “Okay, but if Ceci and Pato don’t end up together, I give up.”

We both laugh that we’ve become so invested in these characters, particularly since Dad can only piece together the plot from the mannerisms and the few words he’s picked up. Every once in a while he asks me for clarification, but it’s pretty scary how much he can get from studying people.

Our living room is suddenly flooded with red and blue police lights.

“I wonder what’s going on.” I pause the TV and walk to the front door.

Baxter follows and starts barking at the door, assuming we have visitors. “Baxter, it’s not for us.”

“What is it?” Dad asks.

“It’s Sheriff Gleason and … someone, I don’t know who.” A black woman with short, dark hair gets out of the car. Then I see her jacket. “Oh, she’s with the FBI.”

The FBI in Valley Falls? This is huge, and a little bit exciting. Everybody in town is going to lose their minds over this. It’s just like watching a movie.

Sheriff Gleason sees me watching from the window. I wave at him and he nods.

“Someone must’ve done something really bad. Sheriff Gleason looks all serious and professional.”

My mind races through the past few episodes of our favorite crime show, its topics ripped from the headlines. What could it possibly be? Drugs? Money laundering? I can see the headlines now: Small Town, Big Murder.

Sheriff Gleason and the FBI woman talk for a few seconds before walking up the sidewalk. I keep waiting to see which neighbor’s house they are going to. I notice both the Paffords and Rosses across the street are also looking out their windows.

The whole town is going to know about this in ten seconds.

My heart stops when Sheriff Gleason and the FBI woman turn in to our walkway. They’re heading to our front door.

“They’re coming here.” I step away from the door, scared of why they’d be visiting us. I mean, it’s Sheriff Gleason. He comes over all the time, but never with his lights flashing. Or with an FBI agent.

Wait a second. “Dad, is this some belated birthday prank?”

When he doesn’t answer, I ask again. “Dad?” I turn around and instantly know this isn’t a joke. Dad’s as white as a fresh sheet of paper, with tears cascading down his face. I run to him. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

He lets out a loud sob. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Ally.”

I feel sick. “Just tell me, what did you do?”

There’s a knock at the door. “Ally, can you open up?” Sheriff Gleason’s tone is stern.