Laura Lynn looked out the dusty glass of the kitchen window, but the yard was empty: the swing set deserted, the tree house vacant. The boy had been gone since just after breakfast, off with that no-good Tarley Spooner no doubt, and she wasn't too surprised that he was late.
She was angry.
But not surprised.
She turned off the oven, stirred the string beans on the stove. Weston knew everyone was coming over for dinner today. She'd made it very clear to him that he could only play outside if he promised to be back well before noon, and he'd assured her that this time he would not forget. She'd believed him, so sincere were his promises, and she thought now that she should have been firmer with him, less trusting, less lenient.
Claude walked into the kitchen, looking for a preview of the meal as always. 'Somethin' sure smells good!' he said.
She hit his hand before he could dip a finger in the mashed potatoes.
'I swear, you're worse than the kids!'
He tried to steal a roll from the plate on the countertop, and she pulled the plate out of his way.
'Speaking of kids,' he said, 'have you seen Wes?'
'I was just going to talk to you about that.'
'Don't worry. I'll find him.' Claude quickly grabbed a spoon and took a bit of Jell-O from the bowl on the sideboard before walking over to the screen door.
'Claude Richards!'
'I'm starving!' He opened the screen and yelled into the backyard:
'Wes!'
No answer. He waited a moment, called out again. 'Weston! It's time to eat!'
'Go find him,' Laura Lynn said.
'I'll find him all right.' Claude pushed open the screen, let it slam shut behind him.
She watched through the window as he checked the tree house, the storage shed, all of the boy's usual haunts.
Haunts.
Claude disappeared around the side of the house, and Laura Lynn suddenly had a bad feeling about where this was heading. It wasn't like Weston to lie, to disobey her once he'd specifically promised not to do so. He might be a little rambunctious, a little headstrong, but he was basically a good kid, and the feeling in her gut told her that he had promised her he'd be back in time for lunch and he would have been back in time for lunch--if he could have.
She wiped her hands on a dishrag, hurried outside after Claude.
'Weston!' she called. 'Weston Richards!'
They were in the front yard now, and the rest of the family was filing onto the porch, having heard the commotion. 'What is it?' Grandma Mary asked.
'We can't find Weston!'
Claude turned to look at her, frowning. 'What are you overreacting for? He's probably playing with Tarley somewhere.'
'No.' Laura Lynn shook her head firmly, afraid that by giving voice to her fear she was ensuring its inevitability, but unable to keep from speaking her mind. 'Something's happened to him. I know it.'
Ford, Charley, and Emma came immediately down off the porch, while Grandma Mary herded Rachel and the little ones inside.
'Weston!' Ford called out.
'Weston!'
'Weston!'
'I'm going to check Tarley's house,' Claude announced.
Laura Lynn looked around, and her gaze was drawn to the empty field on the east side of their property. She started walking in that direction. 'Weston!' she yelled, quickening her stride. 'Weston Richards!'
Then she saw it.
A small, unmoving form lying in the dead weeds next to a scraggly black oak tree.
Laura Lynn sucked in her breath. 'Weston?' She was running before the whisper was completely out of her mouth, her legs pumping with a fury and purpose that they had never known before. She was dimly aware that the others were following her--Claude and Ford and Charley and Emma--but her focus was on the still, small body in the weeds ahead of her. She knew even before she reached it that it was Wes, and she prayed to God and the Lord Jesus Christ that he was only sleeping or only injured or only knocked out, that he was not dead.
Her prayers went unanswered.
It was indeed Weston. His head was crushed. Blood, some dried, most still wet, puddled in the broken indentation that had been the side of his skull. She could see a cockeyed ear dangling at the edge of the break, and in the midst of the liquid red were fatty flashes of white that could only be brain.
But that was not all of it.
For there was foam coming out of his mouth, a thick peachy froth that looked like bubble bath suds or shaving cream.
She looked up, looked away. Something sparkled, and on the hills north of town, she saw the noonday sun reflected off the windows of the big houses in Bonita Vista, like flecks of mica on a granite rock.
She looked back down at her son's still form and fell to her knees, registering but not really feeling the pain as her kneecap hit a jagged pebble. She touched the blood, touched the foam.
Claude grabbed her from behind. 'Laura Lynn! Laura Lynn!'
And she started to wail.
There was something wrong, and Maureen sensed it the second she walked through the door of the title company. It was nothing she could put her finger on--they weren't all staring at her, conversations were still being conducted at normal levels--but she was suddenly uncomfortable, the warm acceptance she'd experienced in previous visits nowhere in evidence now. She passed the secretary, made her way past the agents' desks. She was an intruder here, an outsider, and though there were no overt gestures, though nothing was said, the fact was brought home to her in subtle, almost imperceptible ways as she walked through the office: the slight turning away of a chair, a quickly averted glance, an overemphasis on busywork.
She'd been assigned a temporary cubicle in the far corner, a desk surrounded by three modular walls, and she headed toward it, nodding hello and smiling at the people she saw, pretending not to notice that the return nods were nearly nonexistent and that there were no smiles for her. She was intercepted on the way to her desk by Harland Souther, the title company's manager, and he asked her if she would step into his office, prefacing his request with a nervous cough that she knew did not bode well.
He closed the door behind them after they'd stepped into the room. 'Have a seat,' he offered, moving behind his desk.
Maureen sat down warily. 'What is it?' she asked. 'What's the matter?'
'I'm sorry,' he said, 'but we will not be able to use your services.'
'You're contracted to have me audit your payroll records.'
'I understand that. And, as you know, there is an out clause that enables us to rescind the contract and pay you a kill fee. We will be exercising that option.'
She faced him squarely. 'May I ask why?'
Harland shifted uneasily in his seat. 'It's this whole controversy.
We've decided not to do business with anyone from Bonita Vista. It's nothing against you personally,' he added quickly. 'You seem like a nice woman, and I know you're good at what you do. You're new here, and it's not really fair that you've gotten caught in the middle of all this, but...' He shrugged helplessly.
'I don't understand.'
'You know ...'
She shook her head. 'What?'
'Oh.' An expression like surprise crossed his features, and it was replaced' almost instantly by a sheepish,
