“Hey, kid. How was school?” I ask Connor as he trudges past me. I pat the soil I disturbed more firmly back around a spray of blooms.

“Fine,” he says, without enthusiasm. “I’ve got a paper due tomorrow.”

“On what?”

He hitches his backpack into a more comfortable position. “Biology. It’s okay. I’ve got it.”

“Do you want me to read it when you’re done?”

“I’m okay.”

He goes inside, and I stand up to rub the dirt from my palms. I worry about him, of course. Worry about the scare I gave him (and myself) yesterday. Worry about whether or not he needs more counseling. He’s turned into such a quiet, introverted kid, and it scares me as much as Lanny’s outbursts. I don’t know what he’s thinking most of the time, and every once in a while I see a look, a tilt of his head, that reminds me so strongly of his father that I go cold inside, waiting to see that monster look out of his eyes . . . but I’ve never seen it. I don’t believe that evil is inherited.

I can’t.

I make a pizza for dinner, and we’ve all eaten and are watching a movie together when the doorbell rings, followed by a loud, brisk knock. It makes my throat seize up, and I come off the couch in one convulsive leap. Lanny starts to get up, and I urgently motion her back, silently gesturing for her and Connor to go down the hall.

They look at each other.

The knock bangs again, louder. It sounds impatient. I think about the gun in its safe under the couch, but then I slowly ease the curtain back and peek outside.

Police. There is a uniformed officer on our front porch, and the old feeling of anxiety threatens to drown me for a moment. I’m Gina Royal again. I’m back on our old Wichita street, my hands cuffed behind my back, looking at the handiwork of my husband. Listening to myself scream.

Stop, I tell myself, then let the word ring through my body like Javi’s cease-fire command at the gun range.

I disarm the alarm and open the door, not allowing myself to think about what could happen next.

A big, pale policeman is standing there, sharply dressed and creased and polished. He’s a foot taller than I am and broad in the shoulders, and he has that wary, unreadable look I’m so familiar with. Comes standard-issue with badges.

I smile at him despite the wail of panic going on inside me. “Officer. How can I help you?”

“Hi, Ms. Proctor, right? Sorry to drop in like this. My son told me your boy lost this on the bus today. I figured I’d return it.” He hands over a small silver flip phone. Connor’s, I recognize it instantly. I color-code the kids’ phones, so they don’t mix them up and I can tell at a glance which is which. I feel a flash of anger at my son for being careless, and then one of real fear. Losing a phone means losing our tight control of information, though the only numbers he has programmed in are to his friends here, to me, and to Lanny. Still. It’s a breach in our wall. A lapse of attention.

I don’t say anything in a timely fashion, not even thank you, and Officer Graham shifts a little. He has a strong-boned face, clear brown eyes, and an awkward little smile. “I’ve been meaning to stop over and say hello. But look, if this is a bad time—”

“No, no, of course not, I’m sorry, I—I mean, thank you for returning this.” Lanny has reached forward and paused the movie by now, and I step aside to let him come in. As he does, I shut the door and, by sheer reflex, rearm the system. “Can I offer you some refreshment? It’s Officer Graham, right?”

“Lancel Graham, yes, ma’am. Lance, if we’re not being fancy.” He has a solid, old-school Tennessee accent, the kind that comes from never venturing far from your doorstep. “If you’ve got some iced tea, that’d go down nice.”

“Of course. Sweet tea?”

“Is there any other kind?” He has his hat off immediately and self-consciously rubs his head, disordering his hair. “Sounds wonderful. I’ve had a long, thirsty day.”

I’m not used to liking someone instinctively, and he seems to be working hard to charm me. It puts me on my guard. He’s going out of his way to be polite, respectful, and he has a way of carrying himself that minimizes his broad frame and muscles. Probably damn good at his job. There’s a certain timbre in his voice; he can probably talk down an angry suspect without laying a finger on anyone. I don’t trust snake charmers . . . but I like the easy smile he gives my kids. That goes a long way.

It occurs to me then that I should be damn grateful that it’s a cop who’s brought back this phone. It’s password-protected, of course, but in the wrong hands, knowledgeable hands, it could have done damage. “Thanks so much for returning Connor’s phone,” I say as I pour Officer Graham iced tea from a pitcher in the fridge. “I swear, he’s never lost it before. I’m glad your son found it and knew who it belonged to.”

“I’m sorry, Mom,” my son says from the couch. He sounds subdued and anxious. “I didn’t mean to lose it. I didn’t know it was gone!”

Most tweens, I think, would miss their phone if parted from it for thirty seconds, but my kids are forced to live in an alien world, one where they can’t use their phones for much beyond the basics. No such thing as smartphones, to them. Of the two of the kids, I’d have said Connor was more into the tech; he had buddies, geeky buddies, who texted him, at least. Lanny was . . . less social.

“It’s okay,” I tell him and mean it, because, God, I’d busted on my poor son enough for a lifetime this week. Yes, he’d forgotten to set the alarm. Yes, he’d lost his phone. But that was normal life. I needed to ease up and stop acting like every single lapse was lethal. It was stressing me, and all of us, out.

Officer Graham perches on one of the barstools at the counter to sip his tea. He looks comfortable enough and gives me a friendly grin as he raises eyebrows in appreciation. “Good tea, ma’am,” he says. “Hot day out in the squad car. I can tell you this goes down well.”

“Anytime, and please, call me Gwen. We’re neighbors, right? And your sons are Connor’s friends?”

I glance at Connor as I say it, but his expression is closed. He is turning his phone over and over in his hands. I think with a stab of guilt that he is probably worried what kind of rant I’ll tear off on once the company is gone. It comes to me with ruthless clarity that I’ve been far too militant with my kids. We’ve finally settled in a nice place, surrounded by peace. We don’t have to act like hunted animals now. There are eight broken trails between the address the troll discovered online and us. Eight. It’s time to stand down from red alert, before I damage my kids irreparably.

Lancel Graham is looking around the place now with a curious expression. “You’ve sure done a great job with this house,” he says. “I was told it got trashed, right? After the foreclosure?”

“God, it was a total mess,” Lanny says, which startles me; she usually isn’t one to voluntarily jump into a conversation with a stranger. Especially a uniformed one. “They destroyed everything they could. You should have seen the bathrooms. Utterly gross. We had to wear white plastic suits and face masks to even go in there. I puked for days.”

“Must have been kids partying here, then,” Graham says. “Squatters would have had a little more care for the place, unless they were high all the time. Speaking of that, I should tell you that even out here, we have our own drug problems. Still some meth cooking going on up in the hills, but mainly the big business is heroin these days. And Oxy. So you keep an eye out. Never know who’s using or pushing.” He pauses in the act of raising his glass to his lips. “You didn’t find any drugs in here when you were clearing up?”

“Whatever we found, we tossed,” I tell him, which is entirely true. “I didn’t open any boxes or bags. Everything went out that wasn’t nailed down, and half of that we pried up and replaced. I doubt there’s anything hidden around here now.”

“Good,” he says. “Good. Well, that’s most of my job around here in Norton. Drugs and drug-related robberies, some drunk driving. Not a lot of violent crimes, thankfully. You came to a good place, Ms. Proct—Gwen.”