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.

“Is he the man we just put in handcuffs?”

Ruby looked at me.

I nodded.

“You can tell her,” I said.

“Whatever the truth is.”

“Yes,” Ruby said.

“He smelled like cigarettes.”

“He said, ‘Come on, Rubes, we’re going for a ride.'”

“Nobody calls me Rubes.”

Nguyen wrote it down.

“Thank you,” she said.

“That was very brave.”

“No,” Ruby said.

“Scout was brave.”

“I was just in here.”

Then she put Dale in the back of her cruiser.

And drove him away.

The orchard went quiet.

Real quiet.

The kind where someone is sleeping.

Jason sat down hard on an apple crate.

His face was white with pain.

Meredith knelt and pushed up his pant leg.

The ankle was swollen and purple.

“You idiot,” she said.

“You ran on it.”

“He was going for the door,” Jason said.

“I know.”

“Hold still.”

I stood there in my muddy robe.