Campion did not answer. I noticed that the laptop that had been in the kitchen was in the middle of the bed. “What’s that doing there?” I asked.

“I’m going to be taking that with me,” Campion said.

“You have to be kidding,” I said. “That’s got all our finances and addresses and everything-”

“David.”

I turned. My father was standing in the doorway. “David, you have to see what they’ve done with Ethan’s room.”

I crossed the hallway. My son’s bed had been stripped, and the mattress was up on its side, leaning against the wall. All the plastic bins where he kept his toys had been dumped and strewn across the floor.

“Come on!” I said. “Why the hell do you have to tear apart my son’s room?”

Simpson came up the stairs. “Mr. Harwood, you have the right to be here while we do this, but you can’t interfere as we do our work, or you will be removed.”

I was speechless with rage. I was about to say something else when the cell in my jacket rang.

“Yeah?” I said.

“Hey, Dave, it’s Samantha. What the hell is going on?”

“I can’t talk right now, Sam.”

“Dave, listen, I’ve got to be up-front with you. This isn’t just a friend calling. I’m looking for a quote. I need something now.”

The Standard’s Monday edition wouldn’t go to press until tonight, so Sam was looking for something for the online edition. I hadn’t had a chance to check the website today, but it was reasonable to assume something was on there, given that Jan had made the TV news the night before.

I took a look into Ethan’s room, a glance back into mine. What I felt most like saying at that moment was that the Promise Falls police were a bunch of morons and assholes who were wasting time harassing me while my wife remained unfound.

But instead I said, “Go ahead, Sam.”

“Is it true,” she asked, “that you’re a suspect in this investigation into what happened to your wife?”

It hadn’t been thirty minutes since I’d left the station. How could the Standard already know that-

Reeves.

I doubted Duckworth would have told the councilor anything, and the detective wouldn’t have had time to call any sort of news conference since I’d left him. But my stupid overheard comment would be all Reeves needed to put in a call to the paper. Undoubtedly an anonymous call. Reeves was a weasel if there ever was one. A simple call to the assignment desk to say that one of the Standard’s own people was spotted at police headquarters, angrily denying that he’d killed his wife, would be enough to get the newsroom buzzing.

The moment Reeves was finished with the Standard, his next calls were probably to the TV and radio stations.

“Sam, where did you get this?”

Dad was looking at me, mouthing, “Who is it?”

“Dave, come on,” Samantha Henry said. “You know how this works. I’m sorry, really, but I have to ask. Is it true? Are you about to be arrested? Are you a suspect? Are you a person of interest? Has Jan’s body been found?”

“Jesus, Sam. Look, just tell me this. What are the police saying? What’s their official comment?”

“I don’t have anything yet from-”

“So this is just a rumor. Someone phone into the desk, not leave his name?”

“Dave, I’m not doing anything you wouldn’t do. We got a tip, and I’m following it up. Look, if you’re going to talk to anybody, you should talk to me. This is your own paper. If anyone’s going to give you a good shake, it’s going to be us.”

I wasn’t so sure about that.

Outside, I heard the squeal of brakes. Still holding the phone to my head, I slipped past my father and down the stairs and looked out the front door.

It was a TV news van.

“I have to go, Sam,” I said, and ended the call.

“Isn’t that News Channel 13?” Dad said.

“Yeah, thanks, Dad,” I said. “We need to get out of here. If they start showing up at your place, I don’t want them bothering Ethan.”

“Okay.”

“We’re just going to walk out calmly and get in your car,” I said.

“Gotcha.”

We walked out together, paying little attention as a driver and reporter got out of the van. I recognized the reporter as Donna Wegman. Late twenties, brunette, always pulling hair away from her eyes during remote newscasts.

“Excuse me,” she called over. “Are you David Harwood?”

I pointed back to the house. “Check with the cops. They might know where to find him.”

On the way, Dad said, “I don’t know if you’ve thought of this, son, but maybe you need to talk to a lawyer or something.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I might have to do that.”

“You could try Buck Thomas. You remember him? When we were having that trouble with the Glendons’ driveway encroaching onto our lot? He’s a good man.”

“I might need someone with a different area of expertise,” I said.

Dad nodded, conceding the point. “Lawyers charge a pretty penny, you know. If money’s a problem, your mom and I, well, we have a bit tucked away. If you need it.”

“Thank you, Dad,” I said. “The thing is, the police haven’t actually charged me with anything. I think if Detective Duckworth really had something on me, he never would have let me walk out of that station.”

Dad nodded again, not taking his eyes off the road. “You’re probably right. And since you haven’t done anything wrong, it’s not like they’re going to find any evidence against you after tearing apart your house and your cars.”

If that comment was meant to put me at ease, it didn’t work.

“Jesus,” Dad said, looking ahead. “Son of a bitch didn’t even signal.”

They were cruising along the Mass Pike in Dwayne’s tan pickup, which his brother lent to him when he was released from prison. It was a fifteen-year-old Chevy, and despite all the rust around the wheel wells, it ran okay. But it sucked gas, even with the air conditioner off, which was all the time, because it didn’t work.

“Are you sure it’s not working?” Kate asked.

“Just put the fan on.”

“I did and it’s nothing but hot air.”

“You’re nothing but hot air,” Dwayne said. “Just open the window.”

Kate said, “Your brother really hate you? That why he gave you this clunker?”

“You want to walk?”

At least, if his brother gave it to him, chances were the truck was legit. If they did happen to get pulled over-God knows Dwayne had a history of getting arrested at the most inopportune times-the plates were in order. Dwayne even had a renewed driver’s license, praise the Lord.

“You know,” Dwayne said, “I used to know a Kate in high school, used to wear this low-cut thing, and when she’d bend over, she’d know you were looking and didn’t give a shit. Wonder what she’s doing now.”

“I’ll bet she’s not sitting in some antique pickup truck driving on the Mass Pike with no A/C when it’s a hundred degrees out. Maybe we should have hung on to the Explorer. It was old but the air worked.”

Dwayne shot her a look. “What’s with you? You still pissed about what happened back there?”

At Denny’s. She’d given him shit for that as soon as they’d gotten back into the truck and were on the highway.

“What the hell were you thinking?” she’d said. “Probably somebody’s already called the cops.”

“It was no big deal,” Dwayne had said. “I did that guy a favor.”

“What?”

“From now on, he’ll get those kids to behave, they won’t grow up to be monsters.”

For thirty miles she kept looking back, expecting to see flashing red lights. Maybe no one saw them leaving in the truck from Denny’s.

This habit Dwayne had of losing it just when they needed to keep a low profile, it definitely was a problem. She just hoped he could keep a lid on things until they got their business done in Boston.

“Look, I’m sorry about that,” Dwayne said as they continued along the highway. “So put the bitch back in the box and cut me some slack.”