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His cop antennae blasted red at the crackling lie, but he’d been well trained and kept his voice calm. “I see. I guess we’ll just have to shirt at the beginning, then. Talk to me, Mrs. ” Her head whipped up. ” He pulled the big paisley wing chair toward the bed and sat down. He said patiently, “You told me Autumn is ill, that she had to have one pill a day for a week. That leaves today and tomorrow. ” She shrugged. “I really don’t know. ” She looked over at him, met his eyes a moment. He saw despair and something more, something buried deep, something that scared the crap out of her.

His grandpa would have poked his arm and told him he was sounding like a long-haired poet again. His grandpa would have said it with a sort of Scottish lilt in his heavily accented voice, a spoken song, Ethan had always thought, one of his thick, white eyebrows arched higher than any eyebrow Ethan had ever seen. He’d practiced for hours in front of a mirror but never achieved his grandfather’s lift. He knew it was time to call it a day. Or a night. Where are you? Ethan’s cell screamed out “Blood on Your Hands,” a grinding death- metal rock ringtone that spiked his brain better than a double espresso.

There wasn’t a sound in the kitchen except for Ethan’s hard breathing and Autumn’s small gasps and hiccups. Joanna stared down at Ox, unmoving, watchful, her eyes narrowed, her foot up and ready to kick him again. A minute passed—more like a damned year, Ethan thought—be-fore he saw Ox open his eyes. He stared up at Ethan. Suddenly he didn’t look like a madman bent on murder, he looked very scared. Ethan wanted to shout with relief because now he saw Ox behind those eyes, saw Ox’s confusion. Ox—the Ox Ethan knew—was back.