Travis sobered and looked at James directly. “OK. Normally I stay around after a game, you know how I do, win or lose I want to be there for the boys. But this time, fourth quarter ended, horn went off, and I just got on my bike and got out of there as fast as I could. Got on my bike and started riding. I was so mad. I was ridin’ real fast! I was mad ‘cause we lost, and we shouldn’t have. Those boys got no heart, not like you used to. I was real mad, Jimmy!” His words ground out on a grunt rife with frustration.

He paused to suck in a quick, noisy drag on the cigarette, blew out slowly a steady stream of misty smoke. “Then all that road went by, and I didn’t even notice, and next thing you know I seen it from the road, the Pearce place. Everybody liked him, Mr. Pearce, but he had a mean streak. He didn’t like me. He pretended to but he didn’t.” Travis words strung together as his story became more vehement.

“What do you mean, ‘he didn’t like you?” James kept his tone even, his expression stoic. Clearly Travis felt affronted by the Pearce patriarch, but James needed Travis to stay focused and unagitated.

“I don’t know,” Travis shot out around his thick tongue. “He just didn’t. He pretended to be nice, but I know what he was thinking.” Travis was insistent.

“And what was that?”

“’Boy it sure would be nice to get rid of Travis. Take him over to that recycling plant where he works and recycle him.’ Never liked me from the day he moved here with his fancy accent. I could tell. His wife was nicer. So were the kids...” His voice trailed off as he bowed his head. It was trait Travis had exhibited before when he’d messed up. Was he upset that he said something mean about Mr. Pearce, or did it go deeper? Was that remorse? At killing the kids?

A pit opened up in the middle of James’s stomach and dread churned acid inside. Only a guilty man could feel remorse. Remorse was the flip side of guilt…if one had a properly-formed conscience, anyway. But remorse didn’t pair with innocence. Innocent people could be empathetic, sympathetic, sad, but not remorseful. Oh, Lord, please don’t let Travis be guilty of this. There has to be some other rational explanation. Not guilt. Not guilt! James’s soul screamed the silent plea stolen straight from his heart.

He stared at the metal table, vaguely noticing his blurred reflection in the polished steel. “Listen. Listen, Travis. OK, so you were riding your bike back home from Taft, you were mad because the boys lost and then you were riding past the Pearce farmhouse?” Urgency pounded against James’s temple with every beat of his pulse. He had to get Travis to say he was innocent! Tell me, Travis. Tell me! he silently screamed. The endless shriek in his head cried for release, words failing him as he contemplated the disaster of a confession.