“Is he still exercising?”

“Not as much as he should, but he keeps promising me that he’s going to get serious about it.”

“Tell him that I said he has to.”

“I will. But he’s stubborn, you know. It would be better if you told him. If I tell him, he thinks I’m nagging.”

“Are you?”

“Of course not,” she said quickly. “I just worry about him.” Out in the marina, a large sailboat was heading slowly toward the Neuse River, and they both sat in silence, watching. In a minute, the bridge would swivel open to allow it passage and traffic on either side would begin to back up. Sarah had learned that if she was ever running late for an appointment, she could claim that she “got caught on the bridge.” Everyone in town from doctors to judges would accept the excuse without question, simply because they had used it themselves. “It’s good to hear you laugh again,” Maureen murmured after a moment.

Sarah glanced sideways at her.

“Don’t look so surprised. There was a while there when you didn’t. A long while.” Maureen touched Sarah’s knee gently. “Don’t let Michael hurt you anymore, okay? You’ve moved on-remember that.”

Sarah nodded almost imperceptibly, and Maureen pressed on with the monologue that Sarah had practically memorized by now.

“And you’ll keep moving on, too. One day you’ll find someone who’ll love you as you are-” “Mom…” Sarah interrupted, stretching out the word and shaking her head. Their conversations these days seemed always to come back to this. For once, her mother caught herself. She reached for Sarah’s hand again, and even though Sarah pulled it away at first, she persisted until Sarah relented. “I can’t help it if I want you to be happy,” she said. “Can you understand that?”

Sarah forced a smile, hoping it would satisfy her mother.

“Yeah, Mom, I understand.”

Chapter 7

On Monday, Jonah began the process of settling into the routine that would come to dominate much of his life over the next few months. When the bell rang, officially ending the school day, Jonah walked out with his friends but left his backpack in the classroom. Sarah, like all the other teachers, went outside to make sure kids got in the proper cars and onto the right buses. Once everyone was on the buses and the cars were pulling out, Sarah wandered over to where Jonah was standing. He stared wistfully at his departing friends. “I bet you wish you didn’t have to stay, huh?”

Jonah nodded.

“It won’t be so bad. I brought some cookies from home to make it a little easier.”

He thought about that. “What kind of cookies?” he asked skeptically. “Oreos. When I was going to school, my mom always used to let me have a couple when I got home. She said it was my reward for doing such a good job.” “Mrs. Knowlson likes to give me apple slices.”

“Would you rather have those tomorrow?”

“No way,” he said seriously. “Oreos are way better.”

She motioned in the direction of the school. “C’mon. You ready to get started?”

“I guess so,” he mumbled. Sarah reached out, offering her hand.

Jonah looked up at her. “Wait-do you have any milk?”

“I can get some from the cafeteria, if you want.”

With that, Jonah took her hand and smiled up at her for a moment before they headed back inside.

While Sarah and Jonah were holding hands, heading toward the classroom, Miles Ryan was ducking behind his car and reaching for his gun, even before the echo from the last shot had died. And he intended to stay there until he figured out what was going on.

There was nothing like gunfire to get the old ticker pumping-the instinct for self-preservation always surprised Miles with both its intensity and its rapidity. The adrenaline seemed to enter his system as if he were hooked to a giant, invisible IV. He could feel his heart hammering, and his palms were slick with sweat.

If he needed to, he could put out a call saying he was in trouble, and in less than a few minutes the place would be surrounded by every law enforcement officer in the county. But for the time being, he held off. For one thing, he didn’t think the gunfire was directed at him. That he’d heard it wasn’t in question, but it had sounded muffled, as if it had originated from somewhere deep in the house.

Had he been standing outside someone’s home, he would have made the call, figuring that some sort of domestic issue had gotten out of hand. But he was at the Gregory place, a teetering wood structure blanketed in kudzu on the outskirts of New Bern. It had decayed over the years and was completely abandoned, as it had been since Miles was a kid. Most of the time, no one bothered with the place. The floors were so old and rotten that they could give way any second, and rain poured in through the gaping holes in the roof. The structure also tilted slightly, as if a strong gust of wind would topple it someday. Though New Bern didn’t have a big problem with vagrants, even the ones who were around knew enough to avoid the place for the danger it presented. But now, in broad daylight no less, he heard the gunfire start up again-not a large-caliber gun, most likely a twenty-two-and he suspected there was a simple explanation, one that didn’t pose much of a threat to him. Still, he wasn’t stupid enough to take any chances. Opening his door, he slid forward on the seat and flicked a switch on the radio, so that his voice would be amplified, loud enough for the people inside the house to hear him. “This is the sheriff,” he said calmly, slowly. “If you boys are about finished, I’d like y’all to come out so I can talk to you. And I’d appreciate it if you set your guns off to the side.”

With that, the gunfire stopped completely. After a few minutes, Miles saw a head poke out from one of the front windows. The boy was no older than twelve. “You ain’t gonna shoot us, are you?” he called out, obviously frightened. “No, I’m not gonna shoot. Just set your guns by the door and come on down so I can talk to you.”

For a minute Miles heard nothing, as if the kids inside were wondering whether or not to make a run for it. They weren’t bad kids, Miles knew, just a little too rural for today’s world. He was sure they’d rather run than have Miles bring them home to meet with their parents.

“Now come on out,” Miles said into the microphone. “I just want to talk.” Finally, after another minute, two boys-the second a few years younger than the first-peeked out from either side of the opening where the front door used to be. Moving with exaggerated slowness, they set their guns off to the side and, hands thrust high in the air, stepped out. Miles suppressed a grin. Shaky and pale, they looked as if they believed they were going to be a source of target practice any second. Once they’d descended the broken steps, he stood from behind the car and holstered his gun. When they saw him, they stutter-stepped for a moment, then slowly continued forward. Both were dressed in faded blue jeans and torn-up sneakers, their faces and arms dirty. Country kids. As they inched forward, they kept their arms thrust above their heads, elbows locked. They’d obviously seen too many movies.

When they got close, Miles could see that both of them were practically crying. Miles leaned against his car and crossed his arms. “You boys doin’ some hunting?”

The younger one-ten, Miles guessed-looked to the older one, who met his gaze.

They were clearly brothers.

“Yes, sir,” they said in unison.

“What’s in the house there?”

Again they looked at each other.

“Sparrows,” they finally said, and Miles nodded.

“You can put your hands down.”

Again they exchanged glances. Then they lowered their arms.

“You sure you weren’t going after any owls?”