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anything new, but I’d discovered today that was far from the truth.
    â€œYou can leave,” Sandra Rockwell said, and I jumped in my seat. She’d come over to the car and pulled open the door. “Go back to Twyla’s, and wait for me there. I’m going to call in SBI, right now.” The State Bureau of Investigation. They would be invaluable to a little force like this, but that’s not to say they’d be real welcome. Sandra looked angry, she looked sick, and she looked scared.
    Twyla started up the car, and we drove up the mountain a little ways until we got to a turnaround. She made a careful turn, and drove down, past the ruined house and its ghastly yard, down to Doraville. She parked in her garage, and got out of the car slowly, as though she’d added years to her bones while we were gone. Unlocking the house, she led the way ponderously into the kitchen, where we all three stood in awkward silence.
    â€œI think she meant us to stay here, too,” I said. “I’m sorry. I wish we could go back to the motel and get out of your way. You need some time off.”
    â€œI’ll just go upstairs for a little,” Twyla said. “You all help yourself to the drinks in the refrigerator, and call me if you need anything. If you get hungry, there’s ham on the second shelf, and the bread is in the breadbox there.” She pointed, and we nodded, and she went up the stairs slowly, her eyes on the steps in front of her and her face still with grief and unshed tears. After a minute, we heard her voice and realized she was making phone calls.
    We sat at the table, not knowing what else to do. Even if we’d been in the mood, we wouldn’t have turned on the television or the radio. We read the newspaper, and Tolliver got us each a Coke out of the refrigerator. Tolliver worked the crossword puzzle, and I found a Reader’s Digest to read.
    The kitchen door opened, and a man and woman came in, in a hurry. They stopped at the sight of us, but it was more so they could take a good look than because they were startled. He was very tall and had dark brown hair, and she was very curvy and blond by request.
    â€œWhere’s my mother?” the man asked, and I said, “Upstairs.”
    Without wasting any more words, up the stairs the couple went. They were both wearing the Doraville winter uniform: heavy coats and jeans, flannel shirts and boots.
    â€œHer son and his wife,” Tolliver said. It seemed like a safe guess. “Parker and Bethalynn.” He was much better at remembering names than I was.
    The phone rang, and was answered upstairs.
    To say this was an uncomfortable situation would be putting it mildly.
    â€œWe should leave,” Tolliver said. “I don’t care what the cop said. We don’t need to be here.”
    â€œAt least we could go sit out in our car. That would be better.”
    â€œWe can do that.”
    We washed the coffee mugs we’d used earlier and put them in the dish drainer. We pulled on our outer gear. As quietly as though we were burglars, we stepped out of the kitchen door into the carport, and got in our car. A big pickup was parked behind Twyla’s Cadillac, and I was relieved we weren’t blocked in. Tolliver turned on the engine, and the temperature was barely tolerable after five minutes. It wasn’t getting any warmer as the day wore on, and the sky was looking grayer and grayer.
    After ten minutes, without us exchanging a word, Tolliver backed out of the driveway and we went back to the motel.
    Our room was blessedly warm. I fixed us some hot chocolate, and we sat with our hands around the hot mugs, drinking the watery stuff. I got the book I was reading, and stretched out on my bed to try to get lost in it, but it was impossible to get away from the dead boys.
    â€œEight of them,” Tolliver said. He was sitting in one of the chairs, his feet propped on his bed.
    â€œYeah,” I said.