“Logan?” Thedford blinked a few times, then squinted like he’d forgotten to put on his glasses. “Fuck you doin’ here, boy?”

“If you put the gun down, I’ll tell you.”

“Tell me first!”

“Mr. Blunt, now you know I’m not an intruder. I was a friend of your boy’s—”

“My boy’s dead!”

“That’s what we’re here to talk to you about.”

“Who the fuck’s this?” Thedford nudged Savannah’s back with the gun barrels.

Savannah shut her eyes and bit down on a quivering lip.

“This is Savannah Hickham. The coach’s daughter. Now, will you drop the gun?”

Thedford studied Cole skeptically before lowering the weapon. He still kept it clutched firmly at his side, finger on the trigger.

Cole dropped his hands, slid out from under the steering wheel, and came down the steps. Savannah turned so that she stood beside him just outside the door.

“We have something to tell you,” Cole said. “It’s about Willard.”

“Williard’s dead!”

“No, sir. See … things didn’t happen the way everyone thinks they did.”

“I tole you, my boy’s dead!” The gun came back up, the barrels trained at Cole’s head. “I’m rid of him now, don’t you know? Now let me be.”

“But I’m trying to—”

Thedford’s jaw fell open. A rope of spittle stretched from his lower lip. “Christ on His throne, who’s that?”

Cole looked over his shoulder. Rubin Varney, holder on extra points, was standing on the top step behind him. Rubin’s eyes were deeply recessed, the pupils like drops of black dye. His skin was ashen. An armrest jutted from the skin near his collarbone, leaving his shoulder pads sitting slightly askew.

A nearby horse stomped his hooves anxiously and began turning nervous circles in place.

“Mother of Christ, Logan, who is that?”

“Rube Varney,” Cole answered. “That’s what we’re trying to tell you, Mr. Blunt. Things didn’t happen the way everyone thinks they did.” Over his shoulder he said, “It’s okay, guys, you can come down now.”

Cole and Savannah separated to clear a path. The rest of the players followed Rubin down the steps in the same lumbering manner they had displayed on the riverbank. They fanned out across the barn floor, cleats raking through strewn hay at their feet.

Drool still hung from Thedford’s mouth in a silvery strand. He didn’t speak until his son appeared toward the end of the line.

“Willard? Jesus H, is that you, boy?”