“It’s not like we ever did anything to him,” the man continued. “I never whipped him—the state won’t let you do that anymore—but I’d be firm with him, make him toe the line. Like, we eat on a schedule. I insist on that. Only Garrett wouldn’t show up on time. I lock the food up when it’s not mealtime so he went hungry a lot. And sometimes I’d take him to father and son’s Saturday Bible study and he hated that. He just sat there and didn’t say a word. Embarrassed me, I’ll tell you. And I’d nag him to clean that pigsty of a room.” He hesitated, caught between anger and fear. “Those’re just things you gotta make children do. But I know he hates me for ’em.”

The wife offered her own testimony: “We were mannerable to him. But he’s not going to remember that. He’s gonna remember the times we were strict.” Her voice quivered. “And he’s thinking of revenge.”

“I’ll tell you, we’ll protect ourselves,” Garrett’s foster father warned, speaking now to Jesse Corn. He nodded to a pile of nails and a rusty hammer sitting on the porch. “We’re nailing the windows shut but if he tries to break in … we’ll protect ourselves. The children know what to do. They know where the shotgun is. I’ve taught ’em how to use it.”

He encouraged them to shoot Garrett? Sachs was shocked. She’d seen several other kids in the house, peering through the screens. They seemed to be no older than ten.

“Hal,” Jesse Corn said sternly, preempting Sachs, “don’t go taking anything into your own hands. You see Garrett, call us. And don’t let the little ones touch any firearms. Come on, you know better’n that.”

“We have drills,” Hal said defensively. “Every Thursday night after supper. They know how to handle a gun.” He squinted as he saw something in the yard. Tensing for a moment.

“I’d like to see his room,” Sachs said.

He shrugged. “Help yourself. But you’re on your own. I’m not going in there. You show ’em, Mags.” He picked up the hammer and a handful of nails. Sachs noticed the butt of a pistol protruding from his waistband. He started to pound nails into a window frame.

“Jesse,” Sachs said, “go around to the back and check in his window, see if there’re any traps rigged.”

“You won’t be able to see,” the mother explained. “He’s got them painted black.”

Painted?

Sachs continued. “Then just cover the approach to the window. I don’t want any surprises. Keep an eye out for shooting vantages and don’t present a clean target.”