“Then what’s your problem?”

Ricky took a deep breath. He flicked the cigarette away, turned to Curtis, exhaled like an air brake and said: “That night Gwen went to the hospital?”

“Yeah?”

“When I went over there?”

They’d both known something was wrong when she hadn’t shown up for work two nights in a row. Gwennie never missed a shift. No matter how bad the son of a bitch had tuned her.

So Curtis had covered with Sorensen while Ricky took the Blazer over to Gwen’s place. She’d walked into the store two minutes after he’d left.

“When I got there?”

“Just spit it out.”

“Door was standing wide open,” Ricky said. “She must’ve wandered out of there in a daze, man.”

“So?”

“So I went in.”

“And?”

Ricky looked all around. He dropped his voice, leaned in close. Curtis listened.

“Bullshit,” he said.

Ricky shook his head.

“Are you serious?” It wasn’t really a question. He knew by the way the guy was acting. “Holy shit.”

“Tell me about it.”

Curtis couldn’t believe it. He didn’t even know where to start.

“You mean all this time…”

Instead of finishing his sentence, he made a fist and slugged his brother in the shoulder. Hard as he could, points of his knuckles.

“Asshole,” Ricky said, stepping away. “What’s your problem?”

“What’s my problem?” Now it was his turn to check over his shoulder. His turn to whisper. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you’re a dumbass.”

“Dude, you’re a dumbass.”

Curtis thought of that time, when they were little, Ricky had gone a week without telling anybody he’d found a dead kitten in the air-conditioning unit. He’d been convinced everybody would think he’d done something wrong. Nobody had ever been able to figure out why. Ricky was just that way. Always had been.

“I was going to,” he said. “Okay? I shut the door, hauled ass out of there, came right back here to find you. But you weren’t around, and Gwen was already up in Sorensen’s office with Supercop. So then I was like, okay. You know? Like, man, just leave me out of it.”

“You couldn’t tell me later?”

“I got weirded out.”

Unbelievable. Curtis thought about it.

“So that means…”

Ricky nodded his head. “Yeah.”

“And Supercop must have…”

“I know.”

Curtis shook his head. “Holy shit.”

“Yeah,” Ricky said. “That’s what I’m saying.”

Just then, the back door punched open. Light spilled out into the loading zone. Dave, one of the part-time night guys, came out with a fat garbage bag that smelled like cold spaghetti.

“Hey, Curtis. Get the lid? This is heavy.”

Curtis reached out and lifted the lid to the nearest bin. He wrinkled his nose as Dave heaved the sack in. It landed in the bottom of the bin with a heavy, wet plop and the sound of broken glass.

“What’s that?”

“Ragú sauce.” Dave sighed. “Dropped a whole case, man. Looks like somebody got murdered in Aisle Nine.”

Curtis glanced at his brother.

Ricky didn’t say a word.

36

It turned out to be the warmest November on record. All across the Midwest and the plains, weather maps posted unseasonable highs. Religious groups talked about the end times. The golf courses stayed open.

The Tuesday before Thanksgiving, late in the afternoon, Worth answered the doorbell and found John Pospisil on the front stoop.

“John,” he said. “Hey, there. You back home?”

“Nah,” John said. “Just a trip to the bone doc. Liz had some errands, so I had her drop me by the house. Figured I’d check the place over.”

Worth realized he hadn’t seen John since the night of the break-in, weeks ago. He looked healthy and rested. The big external brace had come off, and he was down to the crutches and a padded boot. He was freshly shaved, and his cheeks had a ruddy tone. Worth wouldn’t have sworn to it, but he thought maybe John had even lost a few pounds.

Worth opened the door wider, stood aside. “Come on in.”

John shook his head. “I can’t stay.”

Worth couldn’t help noticing the way John wouldn’t look at him directly. After holding the door a minute, he finally said, “John, is everything okay?”

“Got a call from that detective this morning,” John said. “The one who was over here. Sheppard?”

“Roger Sheppard, yeah.” Worth nodded. “Is there something wrong?”

“They want me to come in and give another statement. See if I remember anything else, I guess.”

“Oh.” Worth shrugged. “That’s not surprising. I wouldn’t worry about it, John, it’s probably just routine.”

“Thing is,” John said, “I did remember something else.”

With that, he leaned over his crutches and said what he’d come to say. As Worth listened—as the significance of what John was telling him slowly sunk in—he realized that he should be feeling something. Panic, for a start.

When he was finished, John looked off toward the yard.

“You’ve always been a good neighbor,” he said. “Guess I wanted to hear what you had to say for yourself.”

At that moment, Worth realized that not only didn’t he feel panic, he didn’t feel much of anything.

After three solid weeks of reporters and meetings, lawyers and hearings, hours upon hours of sworn testimony, he’d finally found the bottom of his tank. He felt empty.

And he didn’t have another lie left.

So he stood there at the door and told John Pospisil everything. Every last detail, starting with the night he found the body of Russell James.

Worth left out nothing. He offered no color, no spin. He just puked the whole thing out at John’s feet.

It felt like purging a gut full of toxic waste. Like coming up for air. When he was finished, Worth knew only two things for sure:

He wasn’t a cop anymore. And he felt better than he’d felt in as long as he could remember.

“Do whatever you need to, John.” Worth nodded. “It’s okay. I understand.”

John leaned on his crutches, gazing off toward the splintered remains of the big old maple tree.

“Always have been a good neighbor,” he said.

Three days before Christmas, the state grand jury officially cleared Worth of any criminal wrongdoing in the deaths of Officers Raymond Salcedo and Anthony Briggs.

Two days before Christmas, Dr. Jerry Grail sent registered letters pronouncing him fit for a return to active duty, effective day one of the new year.

Worth didn’t kid himself.

He spent Christmas day at Elmwood Manor and ate processed turkey loaf with Dad. One of the other residents rolled up and down the halls, bawling carols in a demented baritone.

“I arrested that guy,” Vince Worth Senior said. He thought he’d arrested everybody there. “It’s tough for an old cop in a place like this. They all want to kill you.”

“Nobody wants to kill you, Dad.”

“Be a good kid and get me some rum.”

“Eat your cranberries.”

Late in the afternoon, it snowed. Fat flakes the size of half-dollar coins fell gently outside. He wheeled the old man up front, to the picture window bordered in red and blue lights.

Dad sat and told stories while they watched the snow. Worth knew half of them weren’t true, but he listened anyway.

At one point, he found himself talking to his poor bewildered father about Tiffany Pine. He often thought of her around this time of year. Especially when it snowed.

“Wish I knew what to tell you, son.” Vince Worth Senior sighed. “It’s a goddamned black world.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s why I worry about your brother.”

Worth said, “Who, Vince?”

“Hell no, not that sonofabitch. Matty.”