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Milltown Mine No. 12. He would return long after that sun had gone down. And he worked underground, so as far as Freddie was concerned, there might as well not have been a sun at all. Until he retired, the single prevailing truth of his world was darkness.
    Freddie’s long white Silverado truck was still parked in front of the house. He always parked it there, leaving the driveway free as a workspace for his loving labors on the Thunderbird, which he kept at the upper end of the concrete slab, next to the house. The high polish on the Thunderbird’s tubular flanks gave it a sleek, missile-like look. You could tell how much Freddie Arnett loved this car, how much he’d fussed over it, gushed over it, pampered it; it had been unconditionally adored. Same was true for his grandson, Bell guessed. She knew how tempting it was to give everything to a beloved child, to make any sacrifice. It wasn’t always the right thing to do—it was almost never the right thing to do—but you did it, anyway. Couldn’t help yourself.
    â€œOkay, old man,” Bell murmured. Even if someone had been standing right next to her, they couldn’t have made out the words; her voice was soft and filled with grim wonder. “What happened here? Who the hell did this to you—and why?”
    It took her a moment to realize that she was talking to the dead. And another moment to realize that it didn’t bother her one bit.

 
    Chapter Eight

    Shirley shuffled into the living room. She parked her backside on the couch, the bony knees of her faded Wranglers jutting out in front of her. She’d been up in her room when Bell called her name. Quickly, she lit a cigarette and took a series of vicious nips at it, as if she’d been warned that somebody might grab it away from her at any minute and so she had to get what she could, while she could.
    â€œYou been gone a long time,” Shirley said.
    Bell shrugged. “Work to do.” She felt an unpleasant twinge of remembrance; Carla had said the very same thing to her, back when her daughter still lived here. On more than a few occasions. Pointed out that, no matter what was going on with her family, Bell’s job came first. And it was usually true.
    She was certain that her sister hadn’t slept since she dropped her off. Shirley was wearing the same clothes she’d been wearing when she left the house three days before: same jeans, same flannel shirt. She hadn’t opened the curtains or raised the blinds. In the dim half-light of the dark-walled room, the skin on Shirley’s face and neck and hands was a gray-yellow shade; it was coarse, too, stretched taut in some places, loose-hanging in others.
    â€œDid you get something to eat?” Bell said. The anger that she’d felt at Tommy’s six hours ago when she first spotted Shirley—anger that consumed her, like fire racing across paper, turning it to ash in an instant—had faded. It happened over and over again, just like that: Time passed, and her fury at her sister’s behavior surged, crested, and then retreated again into a quiet lake of sadness. Bell was slammed back and forth between rage and forgiveness a thousand times a day.
    A thousand and one.
    She sat down across from Shirley in the battered old chair. It was her favorite piece of furniture; its comfort was uncomplicated, utterly reliable. She’d be needing that comfort for this conversation. She could tell from Shirley’s sour face that her sister was still brooding. Like she has any right to be mad at me, Bell thought. Like she’s the injured party here. Go figure.
    â€œYeah,” Shirley said. “I’m good.”
    She was lying, and Bell knew it. Her sister ate very little these days. And when she did eat, the meals generally came from McDonald’s, Pizza Hut, KFC. Or consisted of shiny-packaged snacks from convenience stores: Doritos, mini-doughnuts, Little Debbies. Bell was a