THE HOSPITAL SAID MY NINE-YEAR-OLD DAUGHTER WAS GONE — AND MY HUSBAND BE.GGED THEM NOT TO LET ME SEE HER. TWO WEEKS AFTER THE FU.NERAL, OUR LOYAL DOG DR.OPPED HER YELLOW CARDIGAN AT MY FEET. IT WASN’T TORN. IT SMELLED LIKE HER SHAMPOO. AND THE SLEEVES WERE STILL WET WITH PURPLE PAINT.

Teeth locked on Dale’s sleeve.

Growling so low I felt it in my own chest.

Dale stopped fighting.

“Call it off,” he gasped.

“Hannah, call your dog off.”

I stood over him.

Mud to my elbows.

Jaw throbbing.

“No,” I said.

Jason rolled off him.

He stayed on his knees in the mud.

Breathing hard.

He’d run on that leg.

He didn’t touch Dale again.

He didn’t have to.

Far off, down the county road, a siren started.

Getting louder.

Dale heard it.

His eyes moved from me to Jason to the dog.

“You’re all insane,” he said.

“You buried an empty box.”

“Who does that?”

“People who love her,” I said.

The siren got louder.

Blue lights flickered through the black trees.

A cruiser came bouncing down the tractor path.

Then another.

Deputies jumped out.

Scout didn’t budge until Jason said his name.

Then he backed off.

One step.