“But Brett was broke.” Always. It was one of the things that drove Brett and Felicia apart.

“Bullshit,” said Loming. “That’s just what he told his wife. After we got the business going, he started saving the money he used to blow at the casino, and his take from those sales, too. How else could he afford to leave Swanton for Philly?”

My mind was racing. I had so many questions, but we both heard the soft crunch of tires on snow signaling the return of Mrs. Loming. My witness’s eyes went wide.

“Shit. Don’t tell my wife. Please.”

“Don’t tell her what? That you were dealing to minors the same age as your own sons? Jesus. Is that how Crissy got into drugs? Did Brett send her to school with hash brownies in her lunch?”

“Hell, no! He wasn’t even living with the kids anymore. He didn’t want them anywhere near that shit.”

“Then where did Crissy get her supply? Her mother says she started taking drugs when she was fifteen. That means it happened the same year you and Brett started your operation.”

“Ma’am, I don’t know, she sure didn’t get ’em from me.”

The slam of a car door. Loming’s muscles seized. As soon as his wife was in the house, he would shut down, and I might never get this close to cracking him again. I had a minute, maybe less. “So what you told me about Brett owing you money was a lie?”

“No! That’s all true. About a month before he bolted he started talking about wanting out of the business. But we’d pooled our money to buy the stash from Montreal. He took it from Felicia, out of the bank account they used to share.” He was talking fast now. Getting desperate. “When we went to split the stash, I realized our supply was crazy low. Brett said he had nothing to do with that, tried to convince me it must have been stolen. I thought he was trying to screw me.”

“What happened to the rest of the stash? Did Brett give it to you?”

“No. He took it all with him.”

No wonder he’d called Brett an ex-friend. “Why did Brett want out of the business?”

“Because of Crissy. He found out she’d been using and he freaked.”

“Hang on,” I said, “Brett found out Crissy was using after a chunk of his stash disappeared?”

“That’s what I remember.”

“Did it ever occur to you that she could have taken it?”

“No. I don’t know!”

“So you were selling drugs with Brett at the drive-in that night.”

“Yes, okay? Yes!”

“You say Brett didn’t give any to Crissy, and you claim you didn’t either. You sure about that? Last chance, Mr. Loming.”

The front door opened with a creak, and Loming’s wife singsonged his name from the front hall.

“Not her,” he said. “I never sold to Crissy, just that kid she was with. He came around a lot.”

I could picture it: Darkness, punctuated by flashes of blinding light. Hundreds of cars carefully maneuvered into place, and on the outskirts of it all, two men. Russell Loming and Brett Skilton, lurking in the shadows of the trees where abandoned picnic tables sticky with dried ketchup attracted flies, and the goods they concealed attracted kids in search of a rush.