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Who knew how long this was going to take? I dug my phone out of my pocket, and Henry gave me a questioning look. “I need to call my partner to let him know what’s going on,” I explained.
    Something odd flickered across Henry’s features, but I couldn’t get a handle on it. “Sure. Do you want me to—” He put a hand on the door handle, and I glanced at the fat snowflakes coming down hard once again.
    “No, not at all. It won’t take a minute.” I put the phone to my ear.
    “Sherwood Bakery, good morning, how can I help you?” It was Denny Sheridan, my business partner.
    “Denny, it’s me.”
    “Jason, what’s up? How did it go at the police station?”
    “It went fine. Listen, something’s come up. I had a bit of an accident—”
    Denny gasped and I heard something clatter to the floor. “What? Are you hurt? Where are you?”
    “No, everything’s fine, I promise. I just won’t be able to drive for a while. I’ll have to extend my stay here.”
    “Do you need me to come up there, Jason? I can drive you home if you want.”
    “No, the drive’s too long. Seriously, it’s only a few days.” I heard the doorbell of the bakery jangle in the background and knew he had customers.
    “Well, if you’re sure,” Denny said, lowering his voice. “Take care and call me, okay?”
    “Yeah, you take care, too. Bye, Denny.” I hung up. Henry gave me a weird look. “What?”
    “That’s it?” he asked.
    “Well, yeah. I trust Denny. He’ll be fine. And there’s no need in worrying him with—” I made a vague gesture. “It’s not like he can help from there.”
    “Okay then,” Henry said, turning in his seat and putting the truck in reverse. I couldn’t help feeling the friendship we’d been rekindling suffered under the silence during the ride to Mrs. Mitchell’s house. I wondered what I’d done wrong.

Chapter 3

     
    O NE THING no one ever gets over is the death of a parent. It’s a phantom pain that lingers no matter how many years pass. I don’t know if that’s because Dad died when I was only nineteen, or if that loss sticks like a shadow no matter when it happens.
    Dad wasn’t just a good man, he was everything to me. When I’d come out at the age of sixteen, tearful and scared, he’d clutched my face between his ink-stained hands, looked me straight in the eye, and, after looking pained for a moment, said, “Son, you can grow a pig’s tail, I don’t give a fuck. There is nothing about you that can ever make me love you less.” I’d sniffled and snotted my way through a thank you and clung to him like he was a lifeline. Being gay in a small city hadn’t been any easier then than it is now. I like to think I’ve come a long way since that frightened boy who stood in the kitchen confessing a crush on the captain of the baseball team.
    To my left, Henry said, “Hang on, we’re about to go onto a dirt road. It won’t be for long.” I shifted my weight and tried to keep my upper body as immobile as possible, but the bouncing was still more painful than I liked. To my relief, the pickup soon rolled to a stop in front of a small, red-roofed house. “This is Mrs. Mitchell’s. My house is just around the corner, if you need anything.”
    I recognized where we were: just off Montezuma Park, which meant the Portage Canal was maybe two hundred feet away, and the Johnson farm about five miles. May as well have been the other side of the moon with all that snow. A pity, because once I’d signed all the documents for the police and fire department—and looked at this body, but I wasn’t thinking about that—I intended to put the land up for sale with the first willing real estate agent. There wouldn’t be any reason for me to come back here after that.
    “I’m sorry you have to go through all this,” Henry said, and I startled, unaware we’d been sitting in silence for so long with the engine turned off.
    “Oh, no, it’s fine,” I assured him, “I guess I’m still a bit