“. . . stupid bag that looks like wood. It’s a really good pattern, right? Photorealistic. It fooled me too. I don’t blame you for not seeing it. It took me awhile to find it this morning, and I knew what I was looking for. Just before we jumped, I stuck the diary in there and I chucked it. Even if we didn’t make it, I thought . . . someone might find it. I had to keep it safe.”

Then something odd happened. Patty began to laugh.

Paul Penhale stood up.

“Patty . . . ,” he said in a husky whisper. “Patty . . . what did you do? Look at me, Patty. What did you do?”

She wheeled around at him, her eyes bloodshot from tears of laughter. Her face was contorted in a grimace of rage, relief, or some emotion that Stevie did not know. Something was breaking free inside of Patty Horne.

“You should say thank you,” she said. “You should say thank you. Todd Cooper? You know what he did to your brother. Everyone knew. The whole town let him get away with it. He told us what he did. He told us he hit Michael. Diane covered for him. Eric definitely had his suspicions, but he never stopped hanging out with him. Same with Greg. Same with me. We were all complicit. And what do you think they’d be doing if they were alive? Todd was a monster. Eric was a dealer. Diane was a stoner loser. Greg was a dirtbag. My father tried to tell me, but I wouldn’t listen. In fact, if we’re all being honest, the only person anyone really mourned was Sabrina. Perfect Sabrina. But who was hanging out with Todd Cooper that night? Perfect Sabrina. Who was making out with my boyfriend at my house when I wasn’t home? Perfect Sabrina. Spare me your sanctimony. And whatever this was . . .” She waved at the screen, Stevie, the Bounce House, the crowd. “None of this is . . . real. This is some murder-obsessed kid making things up.”

Sergeant Graves chose this moment to get up and walk over to Patty Horne.

“I’d like to speak to you outside, please,” she said.

“I’m not going outside with you.”

“If you like,” the detective said calmly, “I’m happy to speak to you in here as well. Outside was for your privacy. Ms. Bell came and spoke to me earlier and told me what she knew. I was able to get a warrant this afternoon. You own a firearm.”

It was not a question.

“I have a warrant for that, and for your DNA to do a familial match against the sample recovered from Eric Wilde’s shirt. I have a swab with me. It will only take a minute of your time.”

She nodded toward the back of the room.

“I have two officers with me to assist,” she said. “If you could just go over and join them, we’ll continue this conversation somewhere private. I’ll be by once I speak to Ms. Bell for a moment.”