Rocky peered up the hall behind us. “Where is she now?”

Patrick said, “You don’t have to worry about her anymore.”

Rocky nodded, clearly trying not to cry. “Good.”

JoJo’s face was hot where it touched my neck. She pulled back and looked at me. “Our daddy,” she said. “He wasn’t our daddy either. Not when he left.”

“When did he leave?” Patrick asked.

“Earlier tonight.”

“Where’d he go?” I asked.

JoJo lifted her arm and pointed through her bedroom window. Past the Franklins’ place, the water tower rose beneath the moonlight.

*   *   *

“He was hurt bad,” Rocky said as we headed downstairs. Black curls fringed his round face. Though he’d gone pale, circles flushed his cheeks. He looked even younger than his ten years.

Patrick chose his words carefully. “Like your stepmom?”

“No, not like her,” JoJo said. “His stomach was swole up, and he was all weird and stumbly.”

“And naked,” Rocky added.

Patrick looked like he wasn’t sure what to make of that, and I wasn’t either.

“Our stepmom, she went into shock after Dad left,” Rocky said. “She sat on the kitchen floor and couldn’t talk. She just cried and shivered. We didn’t know what to do. Then when night came on, she … she changed.”

As we passed through the kitchen, Patrick plucked the phone receiver from the wall and held it to his ear. Then he tapped the switch-hook a few times, gave me a little shake of his head, and hung the phone back up.

My stomach pulsed with alarm. Mrs. McCafferty must have cut the phone line, though it seemed crazy to me that she’d have thought to do something like that. By the time we saw her, it didn’t seem like she was thinking at all.

“We’re gonna head back to our place and rouse Jim and Sue-Anne,” Patrick said. “We’ve got to get some help.”

“I want him,” JoJo said. She still hadn’t come out of my arms. “I want my dad.”

“I understand that, Junebug,” I said, hoping her favorite nickname would calm her. “But we need to let the sheriff know what happened here.”

The sheriff happened to be Alex’s father, an added complication that neither Patrick nor I wanted to dwell on right now. Timothy Blanton had been a single father for five years, ever since his wife had driven off to the West Coast one crisp autumn morning, never to return. He was as strict as you’d imagine a single father/sheriff might be, and while Patrick was respectful to him, there wasn’t a lot of affection between them. There’d be even less once we told him about shooting Mrs. McCafferty in the gut, then shredding her in a sweep auger.