Part 69 (2/2)

How long had it taken? Five minutes, ten. Certainly no longer.

According to the coroner, Daffen McAvoy had died between two and

two-thirty A.M. The ambulance call for Emma had been logged in at

two-seventeen.

It didn't help, Lou thought now. It didn't help to have the times

correlated, to have reams of notes and neatly labeled file folders. He

needed to find just one thing out of place, one name that didn't fit,

one story that didn't jibe.

He needed to find Darren McAvoy's killers. If he didn't, he knew he

would forever be haunted by the boy's face, and his young sister's

tearful question.

Was it my fault?

”Dad?”

Lou jolted, then turned to see his son standing behind him, tossing a

football from hand to hand.

”Michael, don't sneak up on me like that.”

”I didn't.” Michael rolled his eyes when his father turned around again.

If he slammed doors and walked through the house like a normal person,

he was being too noisy. If he tried to be quiet, he was sneaking. A

guy couldn't win.

”Dad,” he said again.

”Hmmm?”

”You said you'd pa.s.s me a few this afternoon.”

”When I'm finished, Michael.”

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