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gone. His eyes looked huge. “Have you found my mother yet?”
    Swan was on her cell phone. She looked up, startled. No one had heard Barry come in. She hung up and I could see her sizing him up.
    â€œNot yet, Barry,” she said. “It’s tricky with the weather and the lake currents.”
    â€œBut you’ll keep looking for her, right?”
    Swan gave me a look. It said a lot. I knew she’d figured it out too. How easy it would be for Connie—sitting behind Pete on the sled—to hook his jacket on the seat, jump off the sled and pull the wire as she jumped. Especially if she’d been pushing booze down his throat all evening. I bet she even got Pete to put the keg on the back of the sled too, with a promise of more partying at home. Connie had thought the whole thing out.
    â€œOf course we’ll look, Barry. Believe me, we’ll look,” Swan said. She looked grim. “A person matching your mother’s description bought a used snowmobile online on February 12. To be delivered out back of the Lion’s Head the evening of February 14. Cash on delivery.”
    The last piece fell into place. The used snowmobile would’ve been waiting for her once she’d waded back through the snow. Her final, biggest, escape.
    Barry looked confused. I didn’t think he’d figure it out on his own. Not now, maybe not ever. I felt sorry for him, but I wasn’t going to help him understand. Not for his mother’s sake. Not because she’d suffered all her life and finally escaped. Not for his father’s sake. That bastard had killed one son and let the other carry the blame for thirty years.
    Not for their sakes, but for Barry’s.
    What was I supposed to say? No one will find your mother. Unless they look in Florida, LA or New York City. Somewhere as far from this hardscrabble life as her jewels can take her. Somewhere she can disappear without leaving a trace. And without sending you a single sign that she’s okay.
    Leaving you to carry the bag. Again.
    Next to that, my mother was a peach.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
    A writer does not work alone. Many people played a role in bringing this book to print. First I am indebted to Bob Tyrrell and Andrew Wooldridge of Orca Book Publishers, not only for their belief in my work but, more importantly, for their vision and commitment to publishing books for reluctant and emerging readers. I’d like to thank my fellow writers Mary Jane Maffini, Sue Pike, Linda Wiken and Joan Boswell, as well as my son Jeremy Fradkin, for their thoughtful critiques of early drafts, and my editor Alex Van Tol for making the final draft the best it could be. Thanks also to Shawn Beckstead of Allan Johnston Repair and Sales in Metcalfe, Ontario, for sharing his expertise on snowmobiles.
    Most of all, I owe a huge debt to my parents, Katharine and the late Cecil Currie, for filling my childhood home with books. Without them, I might never have discovered a love of books and a passion to write.

BARBARA FRADKIN is a child psychologist with a fascination for how we turn bad. She is best known for her gritty detective novels featuring Ottawa Police Inspector Michael Green, which have won two Arthur Ellis Best Novel Awards. The Fall Guy (2011) was her first book in the Rapid Reads series featuring handyman Cedric O’Toole.