“I know who you are.” The way Max said this unnerved Colin. Deep and slow, a boy possessed by something ancient and malevolent. “You came here to take my mom away.”

Had Colin been standing, those words might’ve buckled his legs. He’d come to Bury with few ideas of what he’d hoped to achieve, but ripping a parent away from a child was the last of his intentions. That didn’t suppress the reality of what would happen if Rose was ever convicted of Riley McKay’s murder, but seeing that possibility—right here, right in the face of this already traumatized boy—tore into Colin.

“No, Max. That’s not what I’m here to do.”

“Max,” Rose said, her voice firm. “Get back in the car. Right now.”

“No,” Max said, not moving his gaze from Colin’s.

A few seconds passed, an eternity as Colin and the boy stared at each other.

“What is it, Max?” Colin asked.

Finally Max blinked. And then he answered.

Seventy

I haven’t seen that expression on Max’s face since the moment I told him about his father. Smooth on the surface, a torrent behind the eyes, as if there’s a whole universe inside his head. Galaxies upon galaxies, captured in a fragile shell, ready to burst.

“What it is, Max?” Pearson says.

I’m immediately angered; how dare he ask my son any questions? It’s bad enough Detective Pearson keeps hounding me, but he has no right to say a single word to Max.

But then Max answers, and the universe explodes.

“I did it,” he says.

“What?”

My one-word question falls out of my mouth in a raspy breath, but it’s just a placeholder, a pause, a moment to try to redirect time on any path other than the one it’s on. It’ll be of no use.

“I killed him,” Max says, his voice colder than the air around him.

“No, no, no.”

Pearson says nothing; the words are mine. More placeholders, simple stutters. A primal response to something that here, in this shattering moment, I know is true.

Maybe I’ve known it all along. Somewhere, in the deep recesses of my mind, those dark pockets I tap into whenever I think of the rainbow in the cornfield, there’s a spot held for questions about Max. Why he never really cried over his father’s death. Why he sometimes talked about wanting it to be just him and me together. And questions about which of the family traits he carried. Specifically, the Yates ability to kill.

“Tell me,” Pearson says. Calm, like a counselor who deals with troubled children all the time. “It’s okay, Max. Are you telling me the truth?”

I scream. “Max, don’t say anything!” Then I clutch onto Pearson’s arm, not even sure why, but I want to rip it out of its socket. He turns to me and there’s a swirl of emotions in his eyes, but confusion reigns above all.

“You don’t get to talk to him,” I tell Pearson.

His tone remains gentle but commanding. “Let go of me.”