“Jean,” I implored her.

Her eyes were still wet, glazed under the dim bulbs. She backed farther into the bedroom, her hand on the door, ready to close it. “Daddy always said that done is done, and that’s where we are. I said my piece, Work. I told that woman nothing about you. Now you go home. Done is done.” A strange gurgling noise escaped her, half sob, half laugh. “Daddy’s dead… and done is done.” Her eyes moved from me to Alex. “Right, Alex?” she said. “That’s right, huh?” Then, eyes still wild, she closed the door.

I felt light-headed. Jean’s words filled my mind. Her words and her face, an expression I could never forget. I started when I felt Alex’s hand on my shoulder. The front door was open and she pointed at it.

“Don’t come back,” she told me. “I mean it.”

I gestured helplessly at the door that hid my sister. “What have you done to her?” I asked, knowing that, for once, Alex was not to blame. Knowing and not caring. My arm dropped to my side. “She needs help, Alex.”

“Not from you.”

“There’s nothing you can say or do that will make me abandon her.” I stepped closer. “Either you get her some help or I will. Do I make myself clear?”

Alex didn’t back down, and I felt her finger, hard on my chest. “You stay away from Jean! From us and from this house!” She jabbed at me, her eyes fierce. “You,” she said, jabbing again, “are the problem. You!”

We stood there. The line had been drawn, but in her eyes I saw a glimmer of terrible truth. I was the problem. Not entirely, but in part. I could taste the guilt.

“This isn’t over,” I told her.

“Get the fuck out,” she said.

For once, I didn’t argue; I just walked dumbly into the sweet night air. The door closed with a click and I heard the bolt drop.

I was outside the gates, and I was utterly alone.

I retreated into the womblike silence of the truck and, eyes on the darkened house, I relived the moments of Jean’s deterioration. How long, I wondered, until she tried to kill herself yet once again? The signs were there, and some dark part of my mind spoke nightmare words.

The third time’s the charm.

And I feared that it was only a matter of time.

I started the truck and the engine put a vibration inside of me. I felt the stutter in my heart as the truth of what I’d learned began to squeeze it. There could no longer be any question. Jean had killed him. My baby sister. She’d put two bullets in his head and left him to rot. Her words rang in my head-done is done-and I knew, more now than ever, that it would fall to me to save her. She could never do prison. It would kill her.

But what course to take? How to keep Mills from putting two and two together? It was not easy math, and I could only come up with one answer. Keep her eyes on me. I’d take the fall for Jean if I had to, but that was the last resort.

There had to be a way.

When I got to the park in front of my house, I realized that I couldn’t remember the drive that had gotten me there. I’d been at Jean’s and now I was at the park. Blink. Gone. Scary stuff.

I turned onto the side street that ran beside the lake, toward home, and saw a pickup truck parked at the curb, facing the lights of my house. As I drew closer, I recognized it. I slowed down, way down. It was Vanessa’s.

I pulled up next to it and stopped. I turned off the engine. I saw her through the window, hands gripping the top of the steering wheel, her head on her hands, as if asleep or in prayer. If she knew I was there, she didn’t show it, and for long seconds I watched her, aware of my breath in the silence. Slowly, reluctantly, she lifted her head and turned to face me. In the darkness, I could see little of her, just the outline of features I knew so well. I rolled down my window.

“What are you doing here?” I asked her.

“You scared me,” she said stiffly.

“I didn’t mean to.” She sniffed and I realized that she’d been crying, watching my house and crying.

“I got your message,” she said. “I thought I wanted to see you. But…” She gestured at the house, and I noticed for the first time that there were strange cars in the driveway and that all the lights were on. She wiped at her cheeks and I knew that I’d embarrassed her.

“You thought…” I began.

For a long minute, she said nothing. A car turned onto the road, and in its headlights she was drawn and beautiful. “You hurt me, Jackson.” A pause. “I don’t think I can let you hurt me like that again. But then you left that message…” She broke then, and a tiny sob escaped before she clamped down again.

“I meant it. All of it.”

“I’ve got to go,” she suddenly declared. Her hand found the ignition.

“Wait,” I said. “Let me go home with you. Back to the farm.” I would tell her everything-about Jean, about Ezra, but mostly about my feelings for her, and about the shame I’d hidden from her all those years. “There’s so much to say.”

“No.” Her voice was sharp and loud. Then softer: “I can’t go there. Not again.”

“Yes, you can.”

“No, I can’t. If I did, I fear you would destroy me, and I’ve decided that nothing is worth that.” She put her truck into gear. “Not even you.”

“Vanessa, wait.”

“Don’t follow me, Jackson.”

Then she was gone, and I stared at her taillights; they grew smaller, turned, and disappeared. I closed my eyes but could still see red. Eventually, I went home, parked between a Mercedes and a BMW, and entered the kitchen through the garage. There was laughter in the dining room beyond; it rolled across me as I walked into the room.

“Oh, there you are,” my wife said. “Just in time for the second course.”

Then she was up and sweeping toward me, a smile creasing her face beneath eyes I could not read. There were two other couples there, the Wersters and a pair I couldn’t name. They were smiling, amused, and suddenly Barbara was at my side, smelling of perfume and wine. She brushed at my shirt. Up close, I saw that she was worried. No, I thought. She looked terrified. She leaned into me, hugged me, and said very quietly, “Please don’t make a scene.” Then she leaned back. “We’ve been worried about you.”

I looked beyond her; everybody was nodding and smiling, perfectly groomed above a linen cloth and polished silver. Red wine in cut crystal held the light of a dozen candles, and I thought of Jean and the melted wax on her wobbly kitchen table. I saw her in orange prison fatigues, in line for lunch as something brown and lukewarm was slapped from a spoon onto a molded metal tray. The image cut so deeply, I had to close my eyes. And when I opened them, Bert Werster still sat in my chair. “I’ll go change,” I said, then turned and walked out. I passed through the kitchen, picked up a bottle of bourbon, and walked straight out the back door.

As it closed behind me, I heard another burst of laughter. Outside, in the night air, I looked at the sky and tried to bleed away the tension. Then I heard more laughter, like the sound of passing traffic, and knew that it would not be that easy. How long, I wondered, until they realized I wasn’t coming back? What excuse would Barbara offer for the imperfection of her marriage?

I walked around back, where I found Bone scrabbling to get under the fence. I put him in the truck, and I drove us away from that place without a backward glance. I couldn’t save Jean, not tonight. But Vanessa was in pain, and I decided that it was time to deal with this shit once and for all. So as I watched the road, bright in the headlights, I thought of what I would say to Vanessa. I thought of the day we’d met. The day we’d jumped for Jimmy. I was twelve years old, and they said I was a hero. They said I was brave, but I wouldn’t know about that. What I remember was being scared, and then being ashamed.

His name was Jimmy Waycaster. Everybody called him “Jimmy-One-T.” There was a reason for that.