The wind soughed in the dogwoods; old branches creaked, and a spindrift of white petals whirled in through the open window and patterned the carpet.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” North asked. “You went to a loan shark, and now he’s sending Beavis and Butthead in track suits to collect?”

  Trinity shrugged. “They came around a few times to talk. To threaten me, I guess I should say. And then, the last time, they hurt me. When Leah announced two men to see me, I assumed they were here for a more serious punishment.” Her gaze cut to the window. “So I ran. If I’d known it was you, I would have smiled and walked you over to Flip’s residence, and we wouldn’t be here right now.”

  “What about throwing us off campus?”

  “Whether you like to believe it or not, Mr. McKinney, I am a good head of school. I care about my students, and I meant what I said about their own rights being infringed by having private investigators on campus.”

  “No.” Shaw shook his head. “You’re lying again.”

  Trinity’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve told you everything, and I’ve told you the truth. Those men had nothing to do with Flip’s disappearance. I’m ashamed of what I’ve gotten myself into, but I’d never let a child—”

  “You’re telling the truth, but you’re walking around the thing you don’t want to tell us.”

  “Well,” North said, leaning back in the chair, “that’s very fucking interesting.”

  “You’re mistaken,” Trinity said huffily. “There’s nothing else to say. And I don’t appreciate being treated in this way, especially not after I’ve answered your questions.”

  “Come on,” North said to Shaw. “I think the police will be interested to hear about the gambling angle. People will do a lot of stupid things when they’ve got their back to a wall. I think I’ll float the idea that maybe you and your buddies decided to kidnap Flip; the Chittendens could pay a ransom that would more than cover whatever you owed the loan shark.”

  Shaw unfolded himself slowly from the chair; they were halfway to the door when Trinity let out a strangled, “Please don’t.” Her chest rose and fell; her voice was still thick when she said again, “Please. I didn’t do that, what you said.”

  “But you did do something,” Shaw said, and the hard edge to his voice took North by surprise. “What did you do, Trinity?”

  Spilled coffee now soaked the dogwood blossoms studding the floor; instead of freshly fallen, now they looked like they were in the late stages of decay.

  “I made a mistake,” Trinity said.

  “What kind of mistake?”

  “It was the first week of school.”

  “When? This year?”

  “This year. This school year. We start the week after Labor Day. It was the first week of school, and I got a call from Mr. Gutierrez. He’s a retired teacher, one of our substitutes now, and he was covering for Mr. Virani as head of residence over the weekend.”

  “Does that mean what I think it means?” North asked.

  “Mr. Virani was out of town to attend the wedding of a family friend. Because he’s head of residence, we have to find someone to assume his responsibilities—otherwise, the boys would be unattended. It was Friday night of the first week of school, and Mr. Gutierrez called and told me there was a disturbance. He’s in his seventies, and like many retired teachers, he seems to have used up whatever patience he might have once had for teenagers. I anticipated that he’d call me if there was any trouble; we pay him fourteen dollars an hour, and I know that’s not enough to make him exert himself.” She took a breath and seemed to run through what she’d just said. “Because I was expecting something like this, and because the first week there are always discipline issues—boys, especially new boys, go through a transition period, and there are always pranks and fights and hurt feelings. When he called, I didn’t think anything of it; I live on campus, so I simply walked over to Washington. I could hear the screaming as soon as I stepped through the front door.”

  “Flip?”

  “And his father.”

  “What?” Shaw asked.

  “When I got to the third floor, Mr. Chittenden was dragging Flip out of his room. In his other hand, he had a roller bag. Flip was screaming that he didn’t want to go, that he wouldn’t go.”

  “What the fuck?” North breathed.

  “Both of them froze when they saw me. The look on Mr. Chittenden’s face…”

  “Angry?”

  “Murderous. I honestly believe he might have killed me if he thought he could get away with it.”

  “That’s a serious accusation,” Shaw said.

  “I grew up in a nice, quiet home, Mr. Aldrich, in a nice, quiet subdivision. I can count the number of times I’ve been that afraid on one hand, and keep in mind, nobody had even done anything yet. They were just standing there, both of them, looking at me.”

  “What happened?”

  “Mr. Chittenden told me that they were leaving; he was taking Flip out of school because of a family emergency, and they’d settle the outstanding tuition as soon as things settled down. Flip looked me straight in the eye and said, ‘Please don’t let him take me.’ After that, it was a lot of back and forth: I told Mr. Chittenden the situation was highly unusual and making me uncomfortable; he said it was none of my business; I said I insisted on talking to Mrs. Chittenden before he and Flip left; he said he was Flip’s father, and it was his right to take his son out of school whenever he wanted. Finally, I threatened him. I said I would call the police and report him for parental kidnapping. That’s when one parent—”

  “We know what it is,” North said. “What was Flip doing during all of this?”

  “Nothing. Just standing there.”

  “He didn’t fight? He didn’t run?”

  “No. He stared at me. At me.” Trinity spread her fingers on the desk, studying her nails. “That boy was terrified. When I mentioned the police, Francis changed his tune. He shouted and threw a fit, and it went on for another fifteen minutes, but he wasn’t going to risk a criminal charge. After he left, I got Flip settled. I required him to talk to Countee, our counselor, and after a long conversation, Countee told me that he had refused to tell her anything.”

  “Was that the end of it?”

  Her gaze came up and slid away. She rocked her weight from side to side in the chair. “I don’t know what else I could have done. I helped Flip; I made sure his father understood that the school would be keeping a close eye on Flip. But I couldn’t go to the police and say that Flip’s father wanted to remove him from school and acted strangely about it.”

  “Yes,” Shaw said quietly, “you could have. At the very least you could have filed a report. What did Mrs. Chittenden say when you told her?”

  As the silence dragged on, North understood. “You never told her. You decided to do a little blackmailing of your own.”

  “No.” The word was sharp and peremptory. “I wouldn’t—he called me. Do you understand? He called me. The next day. He said he’d been upset about a situation in their family, and would I be understanding enough to forget that anything ever happened, and was there any way the Chittenden family could show their support for the school. I needed the money. And nothing bad had happened; Flip was fine.”

  “He was scared to death. He was alone. He needed an adult he could trust, and you sold him out.”

  Trinity flinched at the end of each declarative.

  “No wonder this whole thing felt like a setup,” North growled. He swatted a pencil holder off her desk. “No wonder it felt like an inside job. No wonder the family has been so fucking weird about this from day one. Come on; we’ve got to tell Diamond about this.”

  “What about Hiwet?” Shaw said. “Where does she fit into this?”

  “I don’t know.” Trinity wiped her face. “I really don’t. She liked to snoop. Once, she used a pair of those wireless earbuds to record a private conversation, and I had to talk some angry parents out of turning the whole thing into a lawsuit. But I have no idea how she got involved with this or—or why such a horrible thing happened to her.”

  “What’s the part you’re really upset about?” Shaw moved to stand opposite Trinity, bending down to catch her eye. “What aren’t you telling us?”

  “I was curious.” Trinity raised her head, a trace of defiance reminding North that this woman headed one of the most prestigious and selective schools in the nation, that she was smart and competent and savvy. “I wanted to figure out why Francis tried to take him.”

  “So you could blackmail him some more,” North said.

  “I found a will. Flip’s grandfather’s. It was probated years ago; it’s public record. He left a great deal of money to Flip, to be held in trust until Flip is twenty-five.”

  “Fuck me,” North breathed.

  “I’m no lawyer, but I think if something happens to Flip, everything goes to his parents.”

  Chapter 25

  AFTER CALLING DIAMOND AND relaying the information they had gathered, Shaw got only a bitten-off response: “Stay out of this.”

  North raised blond eyebrows.

  “The phone cut out,” Shaw said. “I didn’t catch that last part.”

  “Want to go for a drive?”

  “Yep. I want to see his face when we tell him.”

  The drive to the Chittendens’ took them through some of the most beautiful country in the world: the Midwest in full spring. The late redbuds were still in bloom. Catalpa trees with their big, trumpeting blossoms. Oak trees budding. One maple had jumped the gun, the silver-backed leaves foiling sunlight back at them. North rolled down the windows, and the air smelled like loam and diesel and the winter-wet leaf litter drying in the sun.

  When they got to the Chittenden farm, it had changed again. The same white clapboard. The same wraparound porch. The same windbreak, white flowers perking on the haw. Now, though, black satin bows marched along the split-rail fence. On the porch, someone had set up a piece of poster board, the kind Shaw remembered from grade-school science fairs. Hair-sprayed rose petals, so dark red that their edges looked black, were glued to the poster board to spell out words: NO ONE IS LOST TO JESUS. PRAY FOR FLIP.

  “Damn,” North muttered as they took the steps. “That’s morbid.”

  Shaw knocked; no one answered. He strained to hear, but the only sounds were branches creaking and then a car whipping past on the road. He knocked again, and when he got nothing, he went down the porch and around to the garage. A silver Lincoln Aviator was parked next to a big black Ford F-150. He went back to the porch and shrugged. “They’re here.”

  Grimacing, North checked the handle. It turned, and the door opened. Inside, the house was full of spring sunlight, the whitewashed walls glowing. A food smell hung in the air—no one particular note, but meats and starches mingling in a way that reminded Shaw of the Chouteau College dining hall.

  North was making a face. At Shaw’s glance, he whispered, “Casseroles. I hate casseroles.”

  They took a few steps inside; North shut the door behind them. Every movement echoed inside the entry hall, bouncing back from the high ceiling.

  “Hello?” Shaw called. “Mr. Chittenden? Mrs. Chittenden?” Silence; then something clicked, and an appliance hummed to life deeper in the house. “This is Shaw Aldrich and North McKinney. We need to talk to you.”

  “Jesus,” North said under his breath. “If this is a fucking murder-suicide, we’re going to Cancun. For a month.”

  The rumbling discharge of an ice maker made Shaw jump. When he settled, North’s hand came to rest on his shoulder and squeezed once. Then North glided forward, making surprisingly little noise in those ridiculous boots.

  They crossed the entry hall, which led them into what was probably called a great room or a family room or a hearth room: a massive leather sectional, an even bigger—if that were possible—television, and a few blandly anodyne paintings of horses and rural landscapes. A dried-flower arrangement of rust-colored grasses needed to be updated for spring. The food smell was stronger.

  “I bet it’s chicken and celery.” North’s mouth twisted like he wanted to spit. “Might as well eat a mouthful of dirt. Mrs. Saill brought it to every fucking church potluck. Every fucking one.”

  “You shouldn’t say fuck and church in the same sentence,” Shaw whispered back. “Unless it’s one of those sex-positive churches.”

  North laid a finger over his lips, which seemed unfair since he was the one who had started talking. When Shaw opened his mouth to point that out, though, North’s glare doubled, so Shaw settled for rolling his eyes and nodding.

  An opening from the great room connected with the kitchen. Miles of granite and stainless steel and distressed oak cabinets. The oven door stood ajar, and under the warming light lay two casserole dishes covered with foil.

  North sniffed. “Definitely chicken and celery.” More sniffing. “I don’t know what the other one is. Yet.”

  “That’s amazing. You’re like a dog. Or a rat. Or—what’s another trash-eating animal?”

  “What don’t you understand about no talking?” And North put his finger over his lips again.

  “But you—”

  “Shaw!” North repeated the gesture more emphatically.

  Shaw began composing a North McKinney shushing invective in his head. He figured he’d keep it short; no more than four thousand lines of iambic trimeter.

  Before he could get very far, though, a door on the far wall of the kitchen opened, and Francis Chittenden stumbled out of what looked like a pantry. He was carrying a bottle of amber liquid, and judging by the cloud of fumes wafting ahead of him, Shaw reached two conclusions: Francis liked scotch, and he was well on his way to being drunk. It took Francis two staggering steps before he paused, clutched the breakfast bar to steady himself, and seemed to notice them.

  “What are you—” His voice was soft and slightly fuzzy. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “Mr. Chittenden, we need to talk to you.” North cast a quick, assessing look at Shaw, and Shaw nodded. “It’s time to start telling the truth.”

  “The truth.” After a wobbly moment, Francis sat at the breakfast bar, drooping on the stool. He set the bottle down too hard, and the glass chimed against the granite and then slid sideways, threatening to slip out of his hand. Francis fumbled it upright at the last moment. “You want to know the truth? The truth is, my little girl is gone. The truth is, my wife is a sexless iron cunt. The truth is, I’ve got nothing, absolutely nothing. She takes everything away. She gets off on it.”

  “We were at Flip’s school—”

  “I work for her daddy’s company. Did you know that?”

  His waiting had a drunken belligerence that demanded an answer, and after a moment, Shaw said, “We figured it out.”

  “A man shouldn’t have to ask his wife for permission to spend money. He shouldn’t have to ask for an allowance. Am I right?”

  “Mr. Chittenden—”

  “Do you—” Francis weaved slightly on the stool and had to release the bottle to steady himself with both hands. He addressed himself to North. “You two fuck. You know how it is. Do you have to ask him for an allowance?”

  North snorted. “No, although Shaw would fucking love that.”

  “I just think you spend a lot of money on those Japanese snack boxes.”

  “Says the guy who spent four hundred dollars on snail oils.”

  “For my face! You love my face! I’m doing it for both of us.”

  Francis’s gaze had followed the conversation, sluggishly pingponging to each speaker. Now he started to laugh. “You guys are all right. She fired you, but I think you’re all right. But you get it, right? You get it? She makes a couple of calls, and no matter what I say, my paycheck gets put into our joint account. But it’s not joint. I’ve got to ask. And it’s my money. I earned it, even if it is her daddy’s company.”

  “Is that right?” North said softly, although the words were razor sharp. “Is that why you wanted Flip dead? So that his trust would dissolve, and you’d finally have some money for yourself?”

  Francis stilled himself with drunken solemnity. He slid the bottle away, the glass chittering across the breakfast bar. He didn’t sound sober, but his voice had taken on a distinct clarity when he spoke again: “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m talking about Flip’s grandfather. I’m talking about the money he left in trust for Flip until he reaches twenty-five. I’m talking about you messing up the first time you tried to get rid of Flip. Flip made too much of a fuss, and you got busted by the head of school. What did you do this time? Who helped you get rid of him?”

  For the second time in their conversation, Francis began to laugh, but it was hard and unpleasant. It turned into nothing more than a choking noise, and when Francis was finally quiet, he wiped his face with both hands.

  “Fuck you,” the words were easygoing. “Fuck both of you. You’ve got no clue what you’re saying.”

  “We know about the will. We know about the trust.”

  “Yeah? Well, apparently your faggot superpowers don’t include knowing how to read. Did you look at the will?”

  North’s color was high, red spots burning in his cheeks.