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split up?”
    â€œI don’t know. But I’ve got to make a living. And I’d like tocontinue doing it as a photographer. There’s nothing in town for me at any of the stations. Believe me, I’ve looked.”
    Ray finished cleaning his glasses and put them back on. Folding his arms over his chest, he said, “What if I asked you to come work on the campaign with me?”
    Peter laughed. “Right. I’m sure you need your son, the unemployed cameraman, to follow you around.”
    â€œActually, it might be worth thinking about. But beyond that, maybe we could figure out something more hands on, like working in the press office, or hey—Del’s been screaming about needing an assistant.”
    Delavon Green was Ray’s campaign manager. Randy Turk had suggested him because he’d been working on the Ludtke campaign so he already knew the political terrain. Jane had met him a couple times and was impressed by his professionalism and his political savvy. He was also charming as hell, which came in handy when you had to deal with people all day long. Delavon was African American, had grown up in the projects in Detroit. He’d worked on a number of other political campaigns—several in Illinois, a few in Michigan and Ohio, and the last two in Minnesota.
    â€œI’d have to think about it—ask Sigrid what she thought,” said Peter.
    â€œFine,” said Ray. “But just remember, I’m not talking volunteer here, I’m talking paid position.”
    â€œDoes the word ‘nepotism’ mean anything to you?” asked Jane, laughing.
    â€œIt’s the way the world works,” said Ray. “You get hired for jobs two ways. You either know somebody or you stand in line and pray. Let me talk to Del.” He checked his watch. “I’ve gotta run, but I’ll get back to you in a day or two. Don’t make any final decisions until you hear from me.”

 
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    R andy couldn’t remember a time when he wasn’t lonely. As a kid growing up in a small prairie town in the northwestern part of Iowa, he didn’t have many friends. Partly, it was his own nature. He never felt as if he fit anywhere. But mostly it was because he spent so much of his time defending his brother, Ethan, who was, in the parlance of the day, considered “slow.”
    Ethan was big for his age, three years older than Randy, and he looked like he could crush rocks with his bare hands. Nobody dared say anything to his face, but behind his back it was a free-for-all.
    Ethan had trouble with math and English, didn’t always understand the rules to certain games. He was such an easy target, such a big fat joke, that kids Randy did call friends would eventually say something nasty about him. Many nights Randy came home bruised from a fight, or furious after an argument. People said he had a temper, but that wasn’t it. He just couldn’t stand it when his brother was the punch line to every joke.
    After a while, Randy assumed that loneliness was simply the price he had to pay for protecting someone he loved. And yet he ached to have friends like other kids did. Fie wasn’t athletic. Didn’t like sports. By the time he was in high school, there were a few other misfits he palled around with, but it was all pretty superficial. What Randy wouldn’t understand, couldn’t until years later, was that this yearning for a deeper connection with other guys his age would set his life on a course he might have fled from had he understood the ramifications.
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    Around seven on Tuesday evening, Randy pulled his white Volvo into the gravel drive next to his home on the outskirts of Marine on St. Croix. He sat for a moment with the engine running, gazing at the house. It was four stories of glass and steel nestled into the woods on nine acres. Several decks jutted off the sides. He’d worked with an architect to get his dream down on