truck. We’re going for a ride.” “But I want to make a snowman. And a fort. And Nick said—”

“Molly, sweetheart. We can do other stuff later. Help me find the keys.”

I opened Nick’s overnight bag, found a sweater, jeans, a book. A holster. No keys. For the second time that night, I scanned the shelves, rifled through drawer after drawer, even opened a cookie jar. It contained cookies. While Molly ate one, I found a flashlight, candles, and a kerosene lamp, but no keys. I looked in nightstands, behind doors. In the broom closet, I found a shotgun and some shells; inside his shaving kit, a razor, a toothbrush, condoms, deodorant. No keys.

Then, in the upstairs bathroom, the light revealed a piece of paper taped to the mirror. A note from Nick.

“Good morning, sleepyhead. I didn’t want to wake you. I had to run an errand, but I’ll be back in time to make pancakes. I’ll bring the bananas. See you soon. Nick.”

Good morning? When he’d written the note, he was planning to be gone all night. He hadn’t expected me to wake up and find him gone, hadn’t counted on Beverly calling again and again, waking me up. Filling me in. No, Nick had thought himself very clever, leaving a note that he’d gone out only to do an errand. A note that had been deliberately, carefully written to deceive me. From a man who may have killed his wife. I shivered at the possibility. How sinister—how dangerous—was Nick? What kind of man was he? Damn him, anyway. I tore up the note, threw it into the toilet, and flushed, hoping it would stop up his plumbing. Flood the whole goddam place. But the note didn’t go down. Its pieces sat sodden, floating on the water.

“Did you find them?” Molly called.

The keys, I remembered. “No, not yet.”

“Let’s face it, Mommy. They’re not here. Let’s just make a fort? Can we? Please?”

I came downstairs. “Mollybear, don’t whine. Think. If we lived here, where would we keep the keys to our snowplow?”

“Somewhere easy to find them.”

“Right—someplace we could get to them quickly if it snowed really hard.”

“Somewhere in the shed?”

She was probably right. They must be in the shed. On a hook. Or in the truck itself.

“Molly, you’re a genius.” I looked out at large, dense snowflakes, falling heavily in the eerie morning glow.

Carrying the phone, our overnight bags, the thermos, and the flashlight, I took Molly by the hand and trudged outside. The sun hadn’t quite made it above the pine trees; snow and sky blended seamlessly, fading from ominous to forbidding shades of gray. The pines seemed nearer than before, closing in like the snow, and though I knew no one was among them, I didn’t look to the left or right, dreading what I might see. My eyes remained directly ahead, fixed on the swirling snow. We trekked through drifts, knee deep for me, hip high for Molly, grunting and panting through gusts of wind, tasting flakes that blew into our mouths, stopping several times for Molly to catch her breath or balance, for me to rearrange my load.

Finally, we slid to a stop at the door of the shed. I dropped the bags and scanned the walls with the flashlight. There were hooks holding showshoes and bicycles, shovels and rakes. Hooks holding saws and axes and drills and hammers. But no hooks holding keys. Damn.

“Where are they, Molly? Where would Nick keep his keys?” “Maybe inside the truck. In the glove compartment? Can I look, Mom?” She ran to the door of the truck. “Let me.”

“Why can’t I? I thought of it.” “Molly, please don’t whine.” “But why can’t I?” She stopped whining. “Here, hold the thermos.”

I climbed into the truck, leaned over the passenger seat, and reached inside. Maps. Headache pills. Kleenex. Candy bars. A yo-yo. Registration and insurance cards—a yo-yo?

A yo-yo. It was red and blue, made of wood. Blinking at it, I stuffed everything back into the glove compartment, slammed it shut, and yanked my hand away. There wasn’t time to dwell on a yo-yo. The yo-yo didn’t matter. All that mattered was the keys.

Still eyeing the glove compartment, I felt above the sun visor, under the driver’s seat. That’s where I found them, on the floor, under the seat. Next to the gun.

I pulled my hand back as if from a fire.

Of course, there was a gun under the driver’s seat. Nick was a cop; cops had guns. He probably kept them all