Roland didn’t ask who was on the phone. He showered off the chlorine, pulled on his fatigues, and said he had to take care of something.

“What?”

“Floella’s car. It’s still parked somewhere in the Tomahawk. I want to find it, see if she’s got anything of my dad’s in there. You don’t need to come. We’ll go skiing later.”

But something had changed, and I realized I was looking at Roland with the journalistic eye. He was a lead.

7.

We drove around for almost an hour before finding the car. A blue Chevrolet Celebrity, all the glass smashed in, tires blown out. The trunk was open and looked like it had been on fire at some point, the metal misshapen and charred. Contents were scattered around the car—loose clothing mainly, and some black plastic electronics broken into bits. It was parked beside a lot that ran out toward pines, and in the shadows of the trees I could make out tents under blue tarp. Huddled around a fire, I saw cloaked men and women, like mounds.

Across the street stood small houses, curtains closed against the day. Snow ripped off the roofs in sudden squalls, fine as fiberglass. Two men in parkas watched us from the corner as Roland reached through the window of the car and opened the door. Beads of glass covered everything inside the Celebrity. I could hear them shift and spill as he rooted around.

“Fucking disgusting,” he muttered.

One of the men stuffed something in the other’s parka and they started walking in opposite directions.

Roland pounded the glove compartment until it fell open. He found some candy wrappers and an envelope full of photos. Still on all fours inside the car, he filed through the photos like a deck of cards, flicking the shots that included Floella onto the seat.

I picked one of these up, just to see what she’d looked like before the attack. It was her and Roland’s father on their Vegas wedding day. In a baby-blue tux, white hair bunched about his ears, the groom looked more like the father of the young, energetic bride, her bouquet gripped too tight. I slipped the photo in my pocket.

Now a woman with an overcoat cinched around a hoodie came crunching over the plastic bits, her dirty woolen socks stuffed in sneakers. The dull daylight just caught the screwdriver she was clutching. I tapped Roland on the back.

“What’re you doing in my car?” she said.

When Roland withdrew from the driver’s side and she saw his fatigues, she hid the screwdriver behind her back. “Officer.”

“This isn’t your car,” he said, “it’s Floella’s.”

“Floella’s gone. It’s my car now.”

Roland held out the envelope. “I just want these photos,” he said. “She was married to my dad.”

The woman eyed the envelope. He turned it over for her.

“That’s fine.”