over the place, under cushions, in the bread box. No big deal. Not for Nick.

Just take the keys and go, I told myself. I reached under the seat and retrieved the keys.

“Got ‘em,” I said, holding up the key ring.

“Yeah, Mommy. You rule. Let’s blow this pop stand.”

“Let’s what?” Where did she get those expressions?

She wiggled her tooth, shrugging. “Angela says that.”

The ring held lots of keys. A dozen, at least. Lord. What were they all for? I climbed out, grabbed Molly, and hefted her up into the cab. As she climbed across to the passenger seat, I tossed in our bags and hopped up behind the wheel. I slid the driver’s seat forward so my feet could reach the pedals, aimed a key at the ignition, tried another and another until I found one that fit. Then I pushed down on the clutch, held down the brake, felt for a hand brake—was there a hand brake?—released what I thought was a hand brake, stepped on the gas, and turned the key. The engine sputtered and coughed. Then it died. Damn.

“What’s wrong with the truck?” Molly wanted to know.

Good question. Was the battery dead? Was it frozen? Was there any gas? “I don’t know.”

“Do you even know how to drive a truck?”

“Yes, of course I do.”

“Then why isn’t it going?”

“Molly. Give me a second, okay?”

Try it again, I told myself. I turned the key. The engine gurgled. I stayed on the gas. It complained and it groaned, but it finally came to life. Molly gave it a round of applause.

“I never rode in a truck before, Mommy.”

“Me either.”

“Then how do you know how to drive one?”

Oops, she’d caught me. “It’s not that different from a car.”

She pondered that.

“Don’t worry, Mollybear. We’re fine.”

She looked unconvinced but stopped chattering for a while.

The truck forged slowly through the snow, grumbling loudly. Time to shift, I told myself. Shift. Remember how? I found the clutch, pushed down, pulled the stick—and cringed at the piercing screams of grinding metal. The truck lurched to a halt. Oops, I thought. The gears.

“Mommy, what was that?” Molly cried.

“It’s fine.” We weren’t even off of Nick’s driveway, and I’d already stalled. There was a lever in the car—connected to the plow? I pulled it, and the plow lowered into plowing position. Amazing. Something actually was working. Molly kept talking, giving me advice on how to drive.

Start over, I told myself. Get the timing. Push down on the clutch. Now shift. Now accelerate. Now—slowly—release the clutch. Better. A bit of a jolt, but no screeches or stalls.

For endless minutes, the truck snorted and chugged. At first, Molly reacted to each bump. She asked questions about how the plow worked, about Nick. She criticized my driving, cited Angela’s expert advice, and updated me on the status of her teeth, showing that another one was loose. As we chortled around curves, through hills, along walls of silent pines, she eventually leaned back in her seat and dozed. For miles, I drove randomly, with no idea where we were or how to get to a main road. My eyes darted around, checking the rearview mirror as if someone might be following, knowing that no one was. Finally, the winding side road reached an intersection. Not a major artery, but big enough to merit a stop sign. I turned onto it, heading east toward the rising glow in the sky. Chester County was west of the city. So I was headed in the right direction. Soon the sun was higher; shadows evolved into shapes. And the road led to Route 30. A familiar number. I took it. Snow coated the pavement, and the truck felt clumsy, drove heavily, sluggish with the weight of the plow, but when we hit 202 I knew my way. Even with the snow, we could make town in under an hour. We were on our way home. Whatever awful memories awaited me there, they were mine, and I’d deal with them in my way, on my own. I would face Charlie’s empty house and the truth about what had happened there. And if I had my way, I’d never hear of Nick Stiles or Beverly Gardener again.

FIFTY-SIX

THE ROAD WAS SLICK WITH SLUSH AND ICE. I SPED THROUGH A frigid landscape of hilly suburbs and industrial parks onto the Schuylkill Expressway. Molly slept while Nick’s truck roared like a beast, too loud for me to hear my own mind. I floored the pedal, surging ahead, slowing down for no one.

Time