Chapter 38

4:15 p.m.

A caravan of cars returned to Ilios Lane from the police station. Michael McPherson, Arthur Gardenia, the Kowalskis, Helen, and Paja poured into the street, and Michael invited them over to discuss the case, their insurance plans, but mostly to discuss their fear. As Michael expected (and hoped), Paul Patterson, the lingering reporter, tore an immediate path to him.

“Listen,” Michael blocked Paul’s tiny camera with his palms, “there isn’t much to say here. The investigation is ongoing. The police have some interesting leads.”

In his periphery, Michael McPherson could feel the Cambodian teenagers staring at him, mesmerized, it seemed. If only Paul Patterson weren’t here, he’d march right up to that little Sofia and give her a piece of his mind. How dare she convince his daughter to skip school? Who did she think she was? She was lucky to be in America, and Michael McPherson had a fierce desire to remind her of that. So far as he was concerned, the lot of them could march right back to where they came from.

“I’ve provided the police with a list of possibilities,” Michael McPherson said. He had trouble keeping his eyes on the young reporter, his vision wandering left, wandering toward the Cambodians, the boys who leaned as graceful as ballerinas against their rusting car, their bodies lean and slim, all muscle and sinew. They wore bandannas. They wore torn jeans. They smirked at Michael.

“What do you mean, possibilities?” Paul Patterson asked.

Michael looked to Arthur and Helen. They were waiting to come in. Dan and Alicia were talking to Paja in a tight little trio, and the Cambodians were laughing to themselves, eating something. Chips maybe. “We thought we could go over the neighborhood-watch protocols again. Insurance. We ought to just . . . be there a bit. For each other.”

“Yes, definitely,” Helen said, touched by Michael’s apparent inability to articulate whatever he was trying to say. “You know, Susan and Mary were such a big help to me yesterday, Michael. Cleaning up my house.”

Michael nodded once and turned around. Arthur mumbled his assent and started back toward Michael’s house with Helen following, saying, “Maybe we could help each other organize a bit, you know?” Helen noticed Michael’s gaze had shifted and he was staring at the Cambodian boy with the roughest look. She, too, looked toward the Cambodians, but failed to see whatever it was that had caught Michael’s attention.

Michael narrowed his eyes at the Cambodian boy down the street that he recognized from the day before, and the boy didn’t look away. At least not immediately. The direct challenge of such a look! Michael thought. He felt the anger pooling. What did that punk do when he wasn’t on Ilios Lane, Michael wondered. Loiter near their houses, watching, waiting perhaps? And learning. Oh, yes. This boy had been learning. Had been studying them, hadn’t he? Had discovered who was who and what was what and where they all did what they did and when and with whom.

This boy, Michael McPherson suddenly suspected, knew everything.

Paul Patterson had sidled up to Michael once again and was asking him about possibilities and probabilities, lists and developments. This tiny, little husk of a reporter, this freelancer, this lone vulture trying to get ahead. Michael could see it now. How quickly they were all forgotten, how little anyone really cared. Their things scattered across some indistinct geography, their homes in disarray. They were all terrified, weren’t they? That’s why they agreed to come to the McPhersons’. No one wanted to go home. Michael couldn’t remember what he’d been talking about to Paul Patterson and said, “That’s all I can say for now. I’ll give you an update when I can.” Michael turned and motioned for his neighbors to follow. Up to his front door. He inserted his key, turned the knob, heard his daughter’s music blasting from the small kitchen radio.