Jack stood there a second longer. Five seconds. Ten. Then he turned and walked out the door.

VI

I remember the color red.

The trees and the dark and the moon.

And the feel of my hand on the knife, while the warmth seeped through my fingers.

The light of the rising moon stretched out along the hills and cast shadowy shapes onto the road. Jack drove. Scarce houses loomed in the headlights and lost shape behind. The windshield wipers thwacked. Gray and drifting snow. This isn’t the end, he thought. It isn’t. You can’t lose heart. You just have to hold on.

His eyes stung, and he wiped them with his sleeve.

When he turned into the driveway, he could see tire tracks carved into the fresh snow. A sheriff’s truck by the barn. The windows dark. His throat closed. He looked toward the house, but nothing moved inside. No lights on. No smoke chugging from the chimney. He shut off the motor and threw open the door and tore toward the house.

“Matty? Matty!”

Halfway up the porch steps, he heard metal groan behind him. He turned. A man stood there in the shadows, with one hand on the open truck door and his breath frosting the air. Strong in build and big, over six feet tall, with hair aged gray and a face of stone. He wore a Stetson pulled down low over his eyes—Jack could hardly see them—and an open wool blazer over a dress shirt of starched blue cotton. On his hip, an M&P9 peeked out from the holster. Jack knew he was the law and that his last name was Doyle. Folks said he was good in a tangle and not a man to be messed with.

Doyle shut the door. Piled white powder sifted down off the window and dusted the ground. He came forward, one thumb tucked into his belt.

“Nobody’s answerin’. I can tell you that.”

Cold air raised goose bumps on Jack’s skin. He didn’t look at the house. Matty had to be in there. Had to be. “What do you want?”

Doyle took a few more steps, until he stood a couple feet from Jack. “DeeAnne from Services called. Said you might need checkin’ on.”

“We’re good.”

Doyle sniffed. He looked at the house and looked at Jack. “Whose name you shoutin’?”

“My brother’s.”

“And where’s he?”

“At a friend’s.”

“A friend’s.”

“Yeah. I forgot. He went to a friend’s place.”

“What friend?”

Jack kept his eyes on Doyle. Snowflakes fell on his skin and melted. He said, “I don’t know it’s any of your business.”

Doyle gave him a little smile. “I’d like to meet Matty. When he’s not at a friend’s.”

Jack didn’t speak. Doyle looked at the house again.

“Your ma around?”

“No.”

“Well. Where’s she at?”

“On a trip.”