He stood for a minute, examining the book. And he wondered why Ava was so afraid. Then he opened his backpack and put the book inside.

IV

Stay away from me.

What a lovely thing to say.

I should have thanked Jack. He tried to help me. He picked up my book. I should have thanked him. But you have to understand. I knew who Jack was. I knew as soon as Luke said his name.

Jack Dahl.

How’s your daddy, Jack? How’s he doin’?

Jack was Leland Dahl’s son.

Leland Dahl, who robbed a pawnshop with my father and went to prison. Leland Dahl, who knew where the money was.

In the bathroom, I washed my hands. I washed them once, scrubbed. Washed again. Then I went into a stall and locked the door. Breath flinching and jittering through me. Thoughts striking in quick, sharp jabs.

Jack Dahl is dangerous.

Stay away from him.

Stay far away.

As far as you can.

I have said a little about my father. His name is Victor Bardem. I do not call him Father. I was ten when he robbed Lucky Pawn. It was a Tuesday in August. He came home real late in the night with a man I’d never seen. I should have been asleep, but we didn’t have air-conditioning and I was hot. My nightgown stuck to my skin even without the blankets on. At the time we lived in a trailer outside of Rigby. Mom was gone by then.

Here is what happened.

Bardem shuts off the Land Rover’s engine and gets out. He stands in front of the trailer, looking at it. A pale outline of aluminum siding. The moon a slit in the sky. The other man gets out on the passenger side. He wears a mustache that hangs down over the sides of his mouth, and there’s a tattoo on his arm of a pair of hands clasped in prayer. He carries a shotgun with the end sawed off. He looks at Bardem and waits.

Bardem stands there, studying the trailer. Dim windows. Nothing moves inside. The light fixture above the door casts a glare over the front porch.

“You figure he got out with the money?” the other man says.

“Yes. I do.”

“You figure he stashed the briefcase somewhere?”

Bardem smiles in a distracted sort of way. He walks across the dirt to the porch and sits in a green plastic lawn chair. Casual. Relaxed. He watches the man.

Silence.

The man spits on the raw dirt. Sweat beads his forehead. No air moving. He limps to the porch and leans against the rail. He holds the shotgun in one hand, the barrel pointing to the ground. A dark blot stains the left thigh of his jeans. He nods toward the trailer. “You got a bandage in there?”

Bardem doesn’t seem to hear. He cocks his head toward the trailer as if listening for something.