They talked. For the first and only time, he and his parents and his brother and his sisters talked like families in movies and on TV talked—openly, honestly—and it was a liberating experience. He felt as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and he learned that Donna had approached all of them, had appealed to each of them, had offered herself to his mother and father, had presented herself as a friend to his sisters, a girlfriend to his brother.

He himself was the only one who had taken the bait, and while they’d all known about it, while she’d practically flaunted it in front of them, they had never mentioned it to him, never brought it up between themselves. Such things just weren’t talked about in that family in that time in that place, and it was the lack of communication as much as his own weakness and stupidity that had inflamed the situation and led to its inevitable end.

Was that end still inevitable?

He didn’t know, but he thought not. He felt good, he felt free, he felt closer to his family than he ever had before, and while it might not be the case, he had the distinct impression that merely by talking, merely by hashing things out, they had changed the course of events, they had avoided a repeat of what had happened the first time.

It was several hours later that his mother yawned, placed her crocheting needles into her sewing basket, rolled up the afghan on which she was working, and said, “It’s time for bed. I think we’ve had enough startling revelations for one night.”

The kids, tired, nodded and stood, heading off unbidden to their respective bedrooms.

His father stood as well, and offered his hand to Norton, who took it and shook. He could not remember ever shaking his father’s hand before, and the action made him feel more like a grown-up than anything else in his life ever had.

“We’ll find her,” he promised. “All of us. And then we’ll decide what to do.”

Norton nodded. He was feeling tired himself, and he walked out of the family room and, waving good night, went down the hall to the entryway and started up the stairs to his bedroom. The unfamiliar expansiveness he’d experienced earlier was gone, and the House seemed cozy and comfortable, not frightening or forbidding at all but… homey.

He wasn’t quite brave enough to take a shower yet, but he did walk into the bathroom to wash his face. The water that came out of the sink faucet was red and thick, and no doubt he was supposed to believe it was blood, but it smelled like water, and it rolled off his hands, leaving no stain, and he bent down and splashed it onto his face, enjoying the cool refreshing wetness.

He fell asleep happy.

FOURTEEN

Mark