I sank the .45, the murder weapon, in the first lake I came to and scrubbed everything here that might have my fingerprints on it with a bleach-soaked towel. Doorknobs, the dishes I ate off, the lock on the shed, even the shovel I used to bury the old man. I wiped down the camper and truck, too, cleaned the shoe polish off the van, and burned the posters of Benny and my scrapbook.

When the work was done, I ate a can of tuna and took a nap, and I’ve spent the last hour writing this, the final entry in this journal, which started as a chronicle of my search for Benny’s murderer and ended up a killer’s confession. Afterward I’ll burn it too, because there’s no reason for you to read it, no reason you should be burdened with such awful knowledge.

When the pages have turned to ash, I’ll drive to Reno, check into a nice hotel, and eat the biggest steak I can find. And then I’m going to call you. I’m going to call and tell you I’ve finally accepted that I’m never going to find the person who killed our son, and I’m going to ask if I can come home.

If you say yes, I’ll be in San Diego before you know it. I’ll wrap my arms around you and hang on for dear life as I thank you for taking me back. I’ll start teaching again, I’ll go to dinner at Chuey’s with you on Saturdays, and to church with you every Sunday. And the only thing I ask is that if I ever wake up screaming, you forgive me when I don’t tell you what the dream was, and if some night we’re out and you catch me staring at someone and I suddenly grab your hand and say, “Let’s go,” you don’t ask why, you just come along, quickly and quietly. Hopefully that won’t happen too often. Hopefully, with the Lord’s help, I’ll become very good at forgetting.

TODAY’S PASSAGE: Remember ye not the former things, neither consider the things of old. Behold, I will do a new thing. Now shall it spring forth. Shall ye not know it? I will even make a way in the wilderness, and rivers in the desert.

—Isaiah 43:18–19

32

32

ELIJAH SQUINTS AT ANTONIA’S ITALIAN PHRASEBOOK, RUNS HIS finger down the page. He can barely see the words in the dim light of the church but finally finds what he wants to say.

“Ho fame,” he whispers into Antonia’s ear.

She’s staring at a statue of Mary cradling Jesus. A mother and her dead son. One of the most famous sculptures in the world by one of the most famous artists, she said. Elijah whispers again.

“Ho fame.”

“What’s that mean?” Antonia says.

“I’m hungry.”

“Un momento.”