“I’m sorry to disturb you,” he said.

“Hello, Father. You’re not disturbing me.” I gestured toward Danny’s grave. “You gave a nice service.”

He moved to stand beside me, stared at my mother’s stone. “I still think of her, you know. Such a shame. So young. So full of life…”

I knew where his mind had gone. So full of life until she’d taken her own. The peace I’d felt vanished. In its place rose the familiar anger. Where was this man, I asked myself, this preacher? Where was he when the darkness consumed her?

“Those are just words, Father.” He saw the emotion in me. “Words count for nothing.”

“There’s no one to blame, Adam. Other than memories, words are all we have. I did not mean to upset you.”

His regret rolled off of me, and looking at the lush grass that covered my mother, I felt an emptiness like I had never known. Even the anger was gone.

“There’s nothing you can do for me, Father.”

He clasped his hands in front of the vestment he wore. “A loss like this can do untold damage to troubled souls. You should look to the family you still have. You can be of comfort to each other.”

“That’s good advice.” I turned to leave.

“Adam.” I stopped. His eyes held a troubled look. “Believe it or not, I normally stay out of other people’s affairs, unless, of course, I’m asked. So, I’m hesitant to intrude. But I am confused about something. May I ask a question?”

“Of course.”

“Am I right to understand that Danny was in love with Grace?”

“That’s right. He was.”

He shook his head, and the look of troubled perplexity deepened. Melancholy came off him in waves.

“Father?”

He gestured toward the distant church. “After the service, I found Miriam kneeling at the altar, crying. Weeping, actually.” He shook his head again. “She was barely coherent. She damned God, right there in front of me. I’m worried. I still don’t understand.”

“Don’t understand what?”

“She was crying for Danny.” He unclasped his fingers, spread his palms like wings. “She said they were going to be married.”

CHAPTER 31

I pictured the scene as I started the car. Miriam in her sweeping black dress, her face full of hate and secret hurt. I saw her crumpled beneath the shining cross, hands clenched as she damned God in his own house and shunned the help of an honest priest. I thought I understood, saw the ugly bits of it. It was Grace, in perfect stillness, head tilted skyward as Danny’s aunt said, I understand that he loved you very much. And it was Miriam’s face beyond her, the sudden slackness, the dark glass that covered her eyes as those words rolled over Danny’s coffin and mournful strangers tipped their heads in silent condolence for a great love lost.

She’d told the preacher that she and Danny were going to be married. She’d said the same to me, but about Gray Wilson.

He was going to marry me.

Danny Faith. Gray Wilson.

Both were dead.

Everything took new meaning; and while nothing was certain, a sense of dread overtook me. I thought of the last thing the preacher had told me, the last words Miriam had said before she fled the church and its minister.

There is no God.

Who would say something like that to a man of faith? She was gone. Lost.

And I’d been so willing to not see it.

I tried to call Grace, but got no answer. When I called my father’s house, Janice told me he was out after dogs again. No, she said. Miriam was not there. Grace either.

“Did you know that she was in love with Danny?” I asked.

“Who?”

“Miriam.”

“Don’t be absurd.”

I hung up the phone.

She knew nothing, not a damn thing, and I drove faster, accelerated until the car felt light beneath me. I could still be wrong.

Please, God, let me be wrong.

I turned onto the farm. Grace would be there. Outside, maybe, but she’d be there. I crossed the cattle guard and stopped the car. My heart hammered against my ribs, but I did not get out. The dog on the porch had tall triangular ears and a filthy black coat. He lifted his head and stared at me. Blood soaked his muzzle. Teeth glinted red.

Two more dogs came around the corner of the house, one black, the other brown. Burrs and hitchhikers infested their matted coats, snot ringed their nostrils, and one had shit caked in the long fur on his back legs. They loped along the wall, kept their snouts down, but teeth showed at the sides. One lifted his head and panted in my direction, pink tongue out, eyes as eager and quick as darting birds.

I looked back to the dog on the porch. Big. Black as hell. Bloody rivulets dripped from the top step. No movement in the house, door closed fast. The other dogs joined the first, up the stairs and onto the porch. One passed too close and suddenly the first was on it, a whirl of black fur and gnashing teeth. It was over in seconds. The interloper made a noise like a human scream, then scuttled away, tail down, one ear in shreds. I watched him disappear around the house.

That left two dogs on the porch.

Licking the floor.

I opened the cell, called Robin. “I’m at Dolf’s,” I told her. “You need to get out here.”

“What’s happening?”

“Something bad. I don’t know.”

“I need more than that.”

“I’m in the car. I see blood on the porch.”

“Wait for me, Adam.”

I looked at the blood dripping down the steps. “I can’t do that,” I said, and hung up. I opened the door slowly, watching. One foot out, then the other. The 12 gauge was in the trunk. Loaded. I reached for the trunk latch. The dogs looked up when it popped, then went back to what they were doing. Five steps, I guessed. Five steps to the shotgun. Fifteen feet to the dogs.

I left the door open, backed along the side of the car, feeling for the loose trunk. I got a finger under the metal and lifted. It rose in silence and I risked a glance inside. The gun pointed in, barrel first. My hand closed around the stock. Eyes on the dogs.

The gun came out, smooth and slick. I cracked the barrel to check the loads. Empty. Damn. Jamie must have unloaded it.

I looked at the porch. One dog was still muzzle-down, but the big one stared at me, unmoving. I risked a glance in the trunk. The box of shells was on the far side, tipped over, still closed. I stretched for it, lost my view of the porch. The stock clanged against the car and my fingers closed on the box. I straightened, anticipating the hard silent rush, but the dog was still on the porch. He blinked, and the painted tongue spilled out.

I fumbled at the lid, opened the box. Smooth, plastic shells. Brass caps bright against the red. I got two between my fingers and slipped them in, eased the gun closed, flipped the safety off. And just like that, the dynamic changed.

That was the thing about guns.

I put shoulder to stock and made for the porch, checking the far corners for other dogs. More than three dogs in the pack. The others had to be somewhere.

Ten feet, then eight.

The alpha dog lowered its head. Lips rippled, black and shiny on the inside, jaws two inches apart. The growl rumbled in its throat, grew louder so that the other dog looked up and joined in; both of them, teeth bared. The big one stepped closer and hair rose on my neck. Primal, that sound. I heard my father’s words: Only a matter of time before they find a streak of bold.

Another step. Close now. Close enough to see the floor.

The pool of blood spread wide and deep, so dark it could pass for black. It was smeared where they’d licked it, stepped in it, but parts of it were smooth, like paint cut with fine lines where it slipped between the boards. From the pool to the front door I could see drag marks and bloody handprints.

Blood on the door.

But this was not a dog attack. I knew that at a glance. It was the way the blood pooled, how it had already turned as tacky as glue.