Where, Miles wondered, was he supposed to go? What should he do, now that he knew the truth? With Otis, the answer had been simple. There was nothing to consider, nothing to debate. It didn’t matter whether all the facts had fit or that everything had an easy explanation. He’d learned enough to know that Otis hated Miles enough to kill Missy; that was enough for Miles. Otis deserved whatever punishment the law could fashion, except for one thing.  That’s not the way it happened.

The investigation had unearthed nothing. The file he’d painstakingly assembled over two years had meant nothing. Sims and Earl and Otis meant nothing. Nothing had provided the answer, but suddenly and without warning, it had arrived at his doorstep, dressed in a windbreaker and ready to cry.

This was what he wanted to know:

Did it matter?

He’d spent two years of his life thinking that it did. He’d cried at night, he’d stayed up late, he’d taken up smoking, and he’d struggled, certain that the answer would change all of that. It had become the mirage on the horizon that was always just out of reach. And now, at this moment, he held it in his hand.  With a single call, he could be avenged.

He could do that. But what if, on closer inspection, the answer wasn’t what he had imagined it would be? What if the killer wasn’t a drunk, wasn’t an enemy; what if it wasn’t an act of reckless behavior? What if it was a boy with pimples and baggy pants and dark brown hair, and he was afraid and sorry for what happened and swore it was an accident that couldn’t have been avoided?  Did it matter then?

How should a person answer that? Was he supposed to take the memory of his wife and the misery of the last two years, then simply add his responsibility as a husband and a father and his duty to the law to come up with a quantifiable answer? Or did he take that total and subtract a boy’s age and fear and obvious sorrow along with his love for Sarah, thus bringing the number back to zero?  He didn’t know. What he did know was that whispering Brian’s name aloud left a bitter taste in his mouth. Yes, he thought, it mattered. He knew with certainty that it would always matter, and he had to do something about it.  In his mind, he didn’t have a choice.

• • •

Mrs. Knowlson had left the lights on and they cast a yellow glow over the walk as Miles approached the door. He could smell the faint odor of chimney smoke in the air as he knocked before inserting his key and gently pushing the door open.  Dozing beneath a quilt in her rocking chair, all white hair and wrinkles, she looked like a gnome. The television was on, but the volume was low, and Miles crept inside. Her head tilted to the side and she opened her eyes, merry eyes that never seemed to dim.

“Sorry I’m so late,” he said, and Mrs. Knowlson nodded.

“He’s sleeping in the back room,” she said. “He tried to wait up for you.” “I’m glad he didn’t,” Miles said. “Before I get him, can I help you to your room?”

“No,” she said. “Don’t be silly. I’m old, but I can still move good.”

“I know. Thanks for watching him today.”

“Did you get everything worked out?” she asked.

Though Miles hadn’t told her what was going on, she’d seen how troubled he’d been when he’d asked if she would watch Jonah after school.  “Not really.”

She smiled. “There’s always tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” he said, “I know. How was he today?”

“Tired. A little quiet, too. He didn’t want to go outside, so we baked cookies.” She didn’t say he was upset, but then, she didn’t have to. Miles knew what she meant.

After thanking her again, he retreated to the bedroom and scooped Jonah into his arms, adjusting him so that the boy’s head was on his shoulder. He didn’t stir, and Miles knew he was exhausted.

Like his father.

Miles wondered if he would have nightmares again.

He carried him back to the house, then to bed. He pulled the covers up, turned on a night-light, and sat on the bed beside him. In the pale glow, he looked so vulnerable. Miles turned toward the window.

He could see the moon through the blinds, and he reached up to close them. He could feel the cold radiating through the glass. He pulled the covers higher and ran his hand through Jonah’s hair.

“I know who did it,” he whispered, “but I don’t know if I should tell you.”

Jonah was breathing steadily, his eyelids still.

“Do you want to know?”

In the darkness of the room, Jonah didn’t answer.

• • •

After a while, Miles left the room and retrieved a beer from the refrigerator.  He hung his jacket in the closet. On the floor was the box where he kept the home videos, and after a moment, he reached for it. He brought the box to the living room, set it on the coffee table, and opened it.

He selected one at random and popped it into the VCR, then settled back into the couch.

The screen was black at first, then out of focus, then everything came clear.  Kids were seated around the table in the kitchen, wiggling furiously, little arms and legs waving like flags on a windy day. Other parents either stood close by or wandered in and out of the picture. He recognized the voice on the tape as his own.

It was Jonah’s birthday party, and the camera zoomed in on him. He was two years old. Sitting in a booster seat, he was holding a spoon and thumping the table, grinning with every bang.

Missy came into the picture then, carrying a tray of cupcakes. One of them had two lit candles, and she set it in front of Jonah. She was singing “Happy Birthday,” and the parents joined in. Within moments, hands and faces were smeared with chocolate.

The camera zoomed in on Missy, and Miles heard himself call her name on the tape. She turned and smiled; her eyes were playful, full of life. She was a wife and mother, in love with the life she lived. The camera faded to black and a new scene emerged in its place, one where Jonah was opening his gifts.  After that, the tape jumped a month forward, to Valentine’s Day. A romantic table had been set, and Miles remembered it well. He’d set out the fine china, and the flickering glow of candlelight made the wineglasses sparkle. He’d cooked dinner for her: sole stuffed with crab and shrimp and topped with a lemon cream sauce, wild rice on the side, spinach salad. Missy was in the back room getting dressed; he’d asked her to stay there until everything was ready.  He’d caught her on tape as she entered the dining room and saw the table. That night, unlike at the birthday party, she looked nothing like a mother and wife; that evening, she looked as if she were in Paris or New York and were ready for opening night at the theater. She was wearing a black cocktail dress and small hooped earrings; she wore her hair in a bun, and a few curled strands framed her face.

“It’s beautiful,” she’d breathed. “Thank you, honey.”

“So are you,” Miles had answered.

Miles remembered that she’d asked him to turn off the camera so they could sit at the table; he also remembered that after dinner, they had gone to the bedroom and made love, lost in the blankets for hours. Thinking back to that night, he barely heard the small voice behind him.

“Is that Mommy?”

Miles used the remote to stop the tape just as he turned and saw Jonah at the end of the hallway. He felt guilty and knew he looked it, but he tried to hide it with a smile.

“What’s up, champ?” he asked. “Having trouble sleeping?”

Jonah nodded. “I heard some noises. They woke me up.”

“I’m sorry. That was probably just me.”

“Was that Mommy?” he asked again. He was gazing at Miles, his eyes fixed and steady. “On the television?”

Miles heard the sadness in his voice, as though he’d accidentally broken a favorite toy. Miles tapped the couch, not knowing exactly what to say. “C’mere,” he said. “Sit with me.”

After hesitating briefly, Jonah shuffled to the couch. Miles slipped his arm around him. Jonah looked up at him, waiting, and scratched the side of his face.  “Yeah, that was your mom,” Miles finally said.

“Why’s she on television?”

“It’s a tape. You know the kind we used to make with the videocamera sometimes?

When you were little?”

“Oh,” he said. He pointed to the box. “Are all of those tapes?”

Miles nodded.

“Is Mommy on those, too?”

“Some of them.”

“Can I watch ’em with you?”

Miles pulled Jonah a little closer. “It’s late, Jonah—I was almost done, anyway.

Maybe some other time.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Maybe.”

Jonah seemed satisfied with that, at least for the moment, and Miles reached behind him to turn the lamp off. He leaned back on the couch, and Jonah curled against him. With the lights off, Jonah’s eyelids began to droop. Miles could feel his breathing begin to slow. He yawned. “Dad?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you watch those tapes because you’re sad again?”

“No.”

Miles ran his hand through Jonah’s hair methodically, slowly.

“Why did Mom have to die?”

Miles closed his eyes. “I don’t know.”

Jonah’s chest went up and down. Up and down. Deep breaths. “I wish she was still here.”

“So do I.”

“She’s never coming back.” A statement, not a question.

“No.”

Jonah said no more before he fell asleep. Miles held him in his arms. Jonah felt small, like a baby, and Miles could smell the faint odor of shampoo in his hair.  He kissed the top of his head, then rested his cheek against him.

“I love you, Jonah.”

No answer.

It was a struggle to get up from the couch without waking Jonah, but for the second time that night, he carried his son to his room and put him in bed. On his way out, he closed the door partway behind him.

Why did Mom have to die?

I don’t know.

Miles went back to the living room and put the tape back into the box, wishing Jonah hadn’t seen it, wishing he hadn’t talked about Missy.  She’s never coming back.

No.

He carried the box back to the bedroom closet, wishing with a terrible ache that he could change that, too.

• • •

On the back porch, in the darkened chill of night, Miles took a long drag on the cigarette, his third of the night, and stared at the blackened water.  He’d been standing outside since he’d put the videos away, trying to put the conversation with Jonah behind him. He was exhausted and angry, and he didn’t want to think about Jonah or what he should tell him. He didn’t want to think about Sarah or Brian or Charlie or Otis or a black dog darting between the bushes. He didn’t want to think about blankets or flowers or a bend in the road that had started it all.

He wanted to be numb. To forget everything. To go back in time before all this began.

He wanted his life back.

Off to the side, fed by the lights from inside the house, he saw his own shadow following him, like the thoughts he couldn’t leave behind.  Brian, he assumed, would go free, even if Miles brought him in.  He’d get probation, maybe have his license revoked, but he wouldn’t end up behind bars. He’d been a minor when it happened; there were mitigating circumstances, the judge would acknowledge his sorrow and take pity.  And Missy was never coming back.

Time passed. He lit another cigarette and smoked it down. Dark clouds spanned the sky above; he could hear the rain as it soaked the earth. Over the water, the moon made an appearance, peeking through the clouds. Soft light spilled into the yard. He stepped off the porch and onto the flat slate he’d sunk into the ground as a pathway. The path led to the tin-roofed shed where he kept his tools, his lawn mower, weed killer, a can of gasoline. During the marriage, it had been his place, and Missy seldom ventured there.

She had, though, on the last day he saw her. . . .

Small puddles had collected on the slate, and he felt the water splash around his feet. The pathway curved along the house, past a willow tree he’d planted for Missy. She’d always wanted one in her yard, thinking they looked both sad and romantic. He passed a tire swing, then a wagon that Jonah had left outside.  A few steps later, he reached the shed.

It was padlocked, and Miles reached above the door and found the key. The lock opened with a click. He opened the door and was greeted with a musty smell.  There was a flashlight on the shelf, and he reached for it. He turned it on and looked around. A spiderweb that started in the corner stretched toward a small window.

Years ago, when his father had left, he’d given Miles a few things to keep. He’d packed them away in a large metal box; Miles hadn’t been given the key. The lock, though, was small, and now Miles reached for the hammer that hung on the wall. He swung the hammer and the lock popped open. He lifted the lid.  A couple of albums, a leather-covered journal, a shoebox full of arrowheads that his father had found near Tuscarora. Miles looked past them to the bottom and found what he was looking for. His father had kept the box, and the gun was neatly tucked inside. It was the only gun that Charlie hadn’t known about.  Miles knew he was going to need it, and that night he oiled the gun, making sure it was ready to go.