“Good evening, Governor and Mrs. Feuer,” Roop bent over to politely say.

“And to you,” replied the governor, who was a very gracious man if you could get to him.

“I saw you on Meet the Press,” Roop said.

“Oh, did you?”

“Yes, governor. You were great. Thank God someone’s sticking up for the tobacco industry,” Roop gushed.

“It’s common sense,” said Feuer. “Personally, I don’t smoke. But I believe it’s a choice. Nobody forces it on anybody, and unemployment and black market cigarettes are not a happy prospect.”

“Next it will be alcohol,” Roop said with righteous indignation.

“Not if I have a say about it.”

“There’ll be smokes instead of stills, governor,” Roop pitched the line that he believed would win him a Pulitzer Prize.

“I like that,” Feuer said.

“So do I,” said the first lady.

“Smokes.” Governor Feuer smiled wryly. “As if ATF doesn’t have enough to do. By the way,” he said to Roop, “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

The small house around the corner from Henrico Doctors’ Hospital was brick with freshly painted blue shutters, and a well-cared-for yard. The driveway was gravel. There was no car. Brazil pulled in, small white rocks pinging under the BMW. He deliberated over what to do.

“When does your mom come home?” he asked Weed.

“She’s home.” Weed was a little more alert.

“She doesn’t own a car?”

“Yes she does.”

“It’s not here,” Brazil said. “It doesn’t look to me like she’s home.”

“Oh.” Weed sat up straighter and stared out the windshield, his fingers on the door handle. “I want to go to bed. I’m tired. Just let me out now, okay?”

“Weed, where does your mother work?” Brazil persisted.

He was eager to go home and call it a day, too, but he felt very uneasy about leaving this evasive little kid alone.

“She works at the hospital,” Weed said, opening the door. “She does stuff in the operating room.”

“She a nurse?”

“I don’t think so. But she could be here about midnight.”

“Could?”

“Sometimes she’s gone longer. She works real hard ’cause what she makes is all we got, and my daddy gambles a lot and got us bad in debt. I wanna go to bed. Thanks for the ride. I never been in a car this nice.”

Officer Brazil drove off the minute Weed locked the front door. He looked around the empty living room, wishing his mother was home and glad she wasn’t. There was leftover meat loaf and cold cuts, and Weed wasn’t sure if eating would make things better or worse. He gave it a try, grilling a ham and cheese sandwich, which helped calm down his stomach.

He went down the hall, pausing to open the door to Twister’s bedroom. Weed stared at all the basketball trophies and posters, the bed unmade, throw rug rumpled, University of Richmond tee shirt on the floor, the computer on the desk with its Bad Dog screen saver. Everything was exactly the way Twister had left it the last time he had been in his room, August 23, a Sunday, the last time Weed had ever seen him alive.