“And what about your husband’s gun? You didn’t notice it was missing from the rack?”

“No.”

From the couch in the TV room, Junie was calling out her answers along with the players on The Match Game. Nate could hear the sound of Rufus’s truck outside, pulling in the driveway for the evening milking. He heard the hum of the refrigerator and the voice of a game-show contestant, talking about what she was planning to do with her prize money. Inside Nate’s head there was a ringing sound. He felt the sting of tears.

“Let’s just say that if it was me that got taken away, dripping blood,” the police officer said, “I’d like to think my wife would show a little concern.”

“There’s lots of different ways a person can grieve,” Nate’s mother said quietly. “You don’t know anything about what I might be feeling.”

Nate stood very still, barely breathing. His cheek was damp, but wiping it would have required him to raise his hand, and he couldn’t move.

“When a person shoots himself,” the policeman said, “we’ve got ourselves a gun. You’d think that wherever it was he got shot, that’s where his rifle would be lying. Now, I’ve had my men combing the fields, and it’s no place to be found. That’s mighty strange.”

“What are you saying?” His mother’s voice was a whisper.

“I’ll be honest with you, Mrs. Chance. Nobody’s ruling out the possibility that the one who shot your husband might have been you.”

Nate imagined what he’d like to do: tear into the kitchen, punch the guy in his ugly mouth—which would probably be stuffed with chocolates. Pick up his typewriter and throw it through the window.

Only he was fourteen years old. He couldn’t make anything happen. All the power in the world seemed to belong to other people: the ones who took his dad away in the first place, the ones who knew where his dad was but wouldn’t tell him, the parents—like Larry’s mom and dad—who told their children not to talk to him anymore, and now this guy, who was acting like his mother was up on the witness stand.

He could hear the policeman’s chair scraping across the linoleum, his mother clearing away his coffee cup. It sounded like Officer Scruggs was finally leaving. His voice, so hard and accusing a moment earlier, returned to its bland, friendly tone.

“I hope you understand, ma’am. It’s nothing personal. When allegations have been made, it’s my responsibility as an officer of the law to investigate every possibility.”

“If you really want to know what happened that day,” his mom said, “why don’t you ask my husband?”

“Your husband isn’t exactly making sense at the moment.”