“Whose dog what?” Shannon repeats.

“Whose dog have you been riding around with?” Hurt asks.

Shannon looks uncomfortable with the prospect of being watched. “My dog,” he says. “Why?”

“Did you have a dog before?” Hurt asks.

“I just got him,” he says.

“Where?”

“From a friend,” Shannon says.

“Which friend?” Hurt says.

Shannon stumbles. “A kid I know in Mount Snow,” he says.

“What’s the kid’s name?” Hurt says.

“Jake,” Shannon says.

“Jake what?”

“Tucker,” Shannon says. His whole demeanor has changed since Hurt came in. He cracks all his knuckles and stretches his neck.

Hurt writes it down. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll be back,” he says to Kateri.

She hears Shannon breathe out slowly, blowing through pursed lips, and he leans over like he’s winded from running.

“Am I in trouble for having a dog?” he asks once Hurt is gone.

Kateri shakes her head slightly. “Just dotting the is,” she tells him, but she watches him closely. She guesses he’s told her only a small fraction of what he does know. And what he knows probably includes who killed his mother, if he didn’t do it himself. With Hurt gone, his shoulders unhunch from his ears and he looks at Kateri like a frightened animal.

“Did you see her in the hospital?” he asks.

“Yes,” Kateri says.

His eyes dart, searching, nervous.

“Did you hurt her?” Kateri asks.

His face drops, not fearful, not sly, not a bit sarcastic. “I would never,” he says.

“She was fine,” Kateri says. “She was physically unharmed.”

His hands drop to his sides. He looks exhausted, from work, from the interrogation, from keeping a secret for so long.

“You’re not being held,” she reminds him.

“I’m not,” he repeats.

“No. You’re free to go. While we appreciate your cooperation,” she says, “you’re not under arrest.”

“Yet,” Shannon says.

Kateri tilts her head and lets him finish.

“You’re just waiting for me to say the wrong thing,” he says.

“I’m waiting for you to tell the truth,” Kateri says.

Hurt leans his head in after she lets Shannon go. “Kid gone?” he asks.

She nods.

“Come look at this,” he says, and disappears from her doorway, down to his own office.

He has a new plant. Weird, because his office has always looked like he is either just moving in or about to move out. Nothing on the walls but a paper calendar, no framed pictures on his desk or his shelves.

“It’s nice,” Kateri says.

“Not the plant,” Hurt says. He points to his monitor.

He has a file open on a recent parolee, Michael Bartholomew Jane, released from Clinton Correctional in May. His parole officer is listed as Robert Ferris, in the Mount Snow office, and his address is given as Mill Road in Spring Falls.

“Recently released,” Kateri says, leaning. She’s aware that her blouse brushes against Hurt, and she backs away, but it makes it harder for her to see. She squints. “What was he in for?”

“Fraud,” Hurt says. He scrolls down quickly, and the blur makes her faintly nauseated. “Racketeering,” he says.