There would be no funeral, only an urn. They had been waiting for Hunter. The estate was his. Everything. The home. The land. His father’s savings, which were around a quarter million. He was a penny-pincher. Had always saved and invested. Lived simply but comfortably. He had paid for his own funeral arrangements years ago. But the way things are set up, nothing can be done or processed until the next of kin, Hunter, signs off in person. And there is the oddness of Hank’s death.

After getting cleaned up and having a bite, Hunter joins David on the back deck, sitting at a wooden table with cushioned matching chairs, sipping Knob Creek bourbon. A second, empty glass sits waiting next to the bottle. David pours a finger. Slides the glass across the table to Hunter. Taking a sip and leaning back on the cushions. Hunter is beat. The alcohol relaxes him. Itch arrives, having homed in by GPS, and goes inside to clean up. He got everything straight with the cops. Hunter feels bad for the kid, Cory. He has nowhere to go. No place to stay.

David explains that the police and the fire marshal are stumped. They have no idea how the fire started. It is strange. It wasn’t electrical, and there was no sign of an accelerant. No fuel other than the house itself and all its contents. It is as if a portal had opened up and created a fire and then erased all trace of its actions. Hunter’s father had died of smoke inhalation. His body was discovered near the front door. He had not been shot, bludgeoned, stabbed, or poisoned. Hunter tries to imagine Hank’s final days. His last minutes or hours. Asks David, “What did he do every day?”

“Kept to himself. He read a lot. He walked every day. Did these three- and four-mile hikes most days. He was active.”

“Who’d he run around with? Friends?”

“Other than me, he didn’t really keep company with strangers. He had a whole slew of gals he passed time with. And there was a new lady he’d been seeing. I never met her. Your dad was personal about his gals. And very respectful of all women. It’s how we were raised. You know how your grandfather was about your grandmother.”

Hunter does. You didn’t speak ill of his grandmother unless you wanted a maul upside your head.

“When was the last time you spoke?”

“Day he died. He had a date or something. Stopped by afterwards. Went home. I worked out and went to sleep. Was woke up by the fire trucks that night.”

Taking a sip of his bourbon, Hunter asks, “What did you guys talk about?”

“Not much. He’d just been out with this woman. They had some wine. A good steak. He was headed home to reread Dostoevsky’s The Possessed.”