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 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