Bev dropped a spoon and it clattered to the floor. She bent to retrieve it. Red leaned back in his chair. He stared at Jack with a flat expression, his eyes dark as sable. “And what do you want from me?”

“I went to see Dad in prison. We got nothing, Red. I need the money he took. He wouldn’t tell me where it is, but I need to find it.”

“If he’s tellin’ or ain’t tellin’, that’s his decision, boy. It ain’t wise. You pokin’ your damn stupid nose in his business.”

Jack held Red’s gaze but felt sick in his gut. Looking at Red was like looking at something clawed and yellow-eyed at too close a distance. An animal peering out through human eyeholes.

Bev said, “You could ask him, Red. You know he might say.”

“A man don’t ask what oughtn’t be told.”

“But he might—”

“Quiet, woman.”

Jack broke in. “Then what about where he might have put it?”

“Didn’t ask, don’t know.”

“It’s not at the house.”

“He ain’t silly-ass-fool enough to put it there.”

“Then where would he hide it?”

“That ain’t for you to know. And what would you do with it, anyway? Head for Vegas? Run away and change your name?”

Jack thought of Matty. The sudden sting in his eyes, the tiredness and worry, enraged him. He looked to his lap, at his clenched hands. The bandages and spots where red showed through. “I’d use it smart.”

“Not smart enough. Nope. Some buried things ought to stay buried.”

“If you don’t know, I’ll ask somewhere else.”

There was a long silence.

Red leaned toward Jack. He smelled of cooked meat and woodsmoke. A bitter tang of fire and heated flesh. “It ain’t safe.”

“I’ve got to try.”

More silence. Red picked up the tarot cards from the table and split the deck and drew back the halves, shuffled. “You’ll ask somewhere else.” He broke the deck, shuffled again. “Well, nephew, that’s a real good way to end up dead, or wishin’ you was.”

Jack had been working his way to this moment, and now it was time. “What about that one he ran with? Named Bardem. I could ask there.”

Red smacked the cards onto the table and diverted his hand to the knife. He raised it and pointed the tip at Jack, the bone handle a perfect fit in his grip. He paused, staring. Then he angled the knife lengthwise and bounced it gently on his flattened hand, once and twice, as though judging the weight. He ran a finger along the sharp edge of the blade, turned it over, sighed, pressed the skin of his thumb against the saw tooth, pricked up a slit of blood. “What do you know of Bardem?”

“I seen a picture of him once. Dad showed me. Said if I ever see him, run.”