“Poor kid, no wonder he ran away. What will happen to him?”

“Oh, eventually he’ll be sent back. The wheels of justice grind slow, but exceedingly fine. He’ll get a suspended sentence, or maybe they’ll work out something about time served while in foster care. The cops in his town will be alerted to his home situation, but eventually the whole thing will start up again. Kid beaters sometimes hit pause, but they rarely hit stop.”

He put his hands behind his head and thought of Terry, who had shown no previous signs of violence, not so much as bumping an umpire.

“The kid was in Dayton, all right,” Ralph said, “and by then he was getting nervous about the van. He parked in a public lot because it was free, because there was no attendant, and because he saw the Golden Arches a few blocks up. He doesn’t remember passing the Tommy and Tuppence café, but he does remember a young guy in a shirt that said Tommy something-or-other on the back. The guy had a stack of blue papers that he was putting under the windshield wipers of cars parked at the curb. He noticed the kid—Merlin—and offered him two bucks to put menus under the wipers of the vehicles in the parking lot. The kid said no thanks and went on up to Mickey D’s to get his lunch. When he came back, the leaflet guy was gone, but there were menus on every car and truck in the lot. The kid was skittish, took it as a bad omen for some reason, God knows why. Anyway, he decided the time had come to switch rides.”

“If he hadn’t been skittish, he probably would have been caught a lot sooner,” Jeannie observed.

“You’re right. Anyway, he strolled around the lot, checking for cars that were unlocked. He told Yune he was surprised at how many were.”

“I bet you weren’t.”

Ralph smiled. “People are careless. Fifth or sixth one he found unlocked, there was a spare key tucked behind the sun visor. It was perfect for him—a plain black Toyota, thousands of them on the road every day. Before our boy Merlin headed out in it, though, he put the van’s key back in the ignition. He told Yune he hoped someone else would steal it because, and I quote, ‘It might throw the po-po off my trail.’ You know, like he was wanted for murder in six states instead of just being a runaway kid who never forgot to use his turn-signal.”

“He said that?” She sounded amused.

“Yes. And by the way, he had to go back to the van for something else. A stack of smashed-down cartons he was sitting on to make him look taller behind the wheel.”

“I kind of like this kid. Derek never would have thought of that.”

We’ve never given him reason to, Ralph thought.

“Do you know if he left the menu under the van’s windshield wiper?”

“Yune asked, and the kid said sure he did, why would he take it?”

“So the person who tore it off—and left the scrap which ended up inside—was the person who stole it from the parking lot in Dayton.”

“Almost had to be. Now here’s what had me wearing my think-face. The kid said he thought it was in April. I take that with a grain of salt, because I doubt if keeping track of dates was very important to him, but he told Yune it was spring, with all the leaves pretty much out on the trees, and not real hot yet. So it probably was. And April is when Terry was in Dayton, visiting his father.”

“Only he was with his family, and they flew round-trip.”

“I know that. You could call it a coincidence. Only then the same van ends up here in Flint City, and it’s hard for me to believe in two coincidences involving the same Ford Econoline van. Yune floated the idea that maybe Terry had an accomplice.”

“One who looked exactly like him?” Jeannie hoisted an eyebrow. “A twin brother named William Wilson, maybe?”

“I know, the idea is ridiculous. But you see how weird it is, don’t you? Terry is in Dayton, the van is in Dayton. Terry comes home to Flint City, and the van turns up in Flint City. There’s a word for that, but I can’t remember what it is.”

“Confluence might be the one you’re looking for.”

“I want to talk to Marcy,” he said. “I want to ask her about the trip the Maitlands made to Dayton. Everything she remembers. Only she won’t want to talk to me, and I have absolutely no way of compelling her.”

“Will you try?”

“Oh yes, I’ll try.”

“Can you sleep now?”

“I think so. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

He was drifting away when she spoke into his ear, firm and almost harsh, trying to shock it out of him. “If it wasn’t the bra strap, what was it?”

For a moment, clearly, Ralph saw the word CANT. Only the letters were bluey-green, not yellow. Something was there. He grasped for it, but it slipped away.

“Can’t,” he said.

“Not yet,” Jeannie replied, “but you will. I know you.”

They went to sleep. When Ralph woke up, it was eight o’clock and all the birds were singing.

10

By ten on that Friday morning, Sarah and Grace had reached the Hard Day’s Night album, and Marcy thought she might actually lose her mind.

The girls had found Terry’s record player—a steal on eBay, he had assured Marcy—in his garage workshop, along with his carefully assembled collection of Beatles albums. They had taken the player and the albums up to Grace’s room and had begun with Meet the Beatles! “We’re going to play all of them,” Sarah told her mother. “To remember Daddy. If it’s okay.”

Marcy told them it was fine. What else could she say when looking at their pale, solemn faces and red-rimmed eyes? Only she hadn’t realized how hard those songs would hit her. The girls knew them all, of course; when Terry was in the garage, the record player’s turntable was always spinning, filling his workshop with the British invasion groups he’d been born a little too late to have heard firsthand, but which he loved just the same: the Searchers, the Zombies, the Dave Clark Five, the Kinks, T. Rex, and—of course—the Beatles. Mostly them.

The girls loved those groups and those songs because their father did, but there was a whole emotional spectrum of which they were unaware. They hadn’t heard “I Call Your Name” while making out in the back of Terry’s father’s car, Terry’s lips on her neck, Terry’s hand under her sweater. They hadn’t heard “Can’t Buy Me Love,” the current track coming down from upstairs, while sitting on the couch in the first apartment where they’d lived together, holding hands, watching A Hard Day’s Night on the battered VHS they’d picked up at a rummage sale for twenty dollars, the Fab Four young and running amok in black-and-white, Marcy knowing she was going to marry the young man sitting next to her even if he didn’t know it yet. Had John Lennon already been dead when they watched that old tape? Shot down in the street just as her husband had been?

She didn’t know, couldn’t remember. All she knew was she, Sarah, and Grace had gotten through the funeral with their dignity intact, but now the funeral was over, her life as a single mom (oh, that horrible phrase) stretched ahead of her, and the cheerful music was driving her mad with sorrow. Every harmonized vocal, each clever George Harrison riff, was a fresh wound. Twice she had gotten up from where she sat at the kitchen table with a cooling cup of coffee in front of her. Twice she had gone to the foot of the stairs and drawn in breath to shout, No more! Shut it off! And twice she had gone back to the kitchen. They were grieving, too.