Page 68 of Broken Things

Owen parks down the street, as if he’s afraid Mr. Haggard might make a run for it if he so much as catches sight of the car. For a fewseconds we just sit there after he cuts the engine, letting the heat creep back in. Doubts are still waggling their fingers at me.

“What’s the game plan?” I ask. “We need a cover story. I mean, we can’t just barge in and ask him if he killed Summer.”

“Follow my lead,” Owen says, like he’s the hero in a bad cop movie and we’re about to bust a terrorist ring.

Outside, the sun is doing its best to turn the pavement to butter. In the distance, kids are laughing and splashing, and the air smells like barbecue. I haven’t had anything to eat since we fueled up on gas station chips last night, and I’m starving. For a quick second I wish I lived here, on Bones Road, in one of these tidy houses. I wish a mom and dad were busy grilling up lunch while I went splashing through a sprinkler. But like my mom always said,Wishes are like lotto tickets—they never pay out.

An old, frayed welcome mat on the front stoop readsThere’s No Place Like Home. Owen jabs the doorbell, and musical notes echo through the house. Standing there gives me the uncomfortable feeling of being a little kid on Halloween, waiting for someone to swing open the door.Trick or treat.I count four, five, six seconds.

“What if he’s not home?” Mia whispers.

“Someone’s home,” Owen says. “The car’s in the driveway.”

“But—” Mia starts to protest, but quickly falls silent. Footsteps patter toward us. He is home, after all.

But it’s not Mr. Haggard who swings open the door.

It’s a little girl. A girl maybe eleven or twelve, wearing a bathing suit and hot-pink short shorts, with a cloud of blond hair andsky-blue eyes, just like Summer’s.

For a second we all just stand there, gaping at her, three fish hooked through the lip. She rests one foot on the inside of her opposite knee, stork-style.

“Who are you?” she asks.

“Who areyou?” I finally manage to say. But before she can answer, more footsteps—a brown-haired woman appears behind her and draws the little girl back. She’s bouncing a blond-haired boy on her hip. His face is coated with what looks like strawberry jam.

“What did I tell you about answering the door?” she says to the girl, and the girl spins away from her, squealing, and disappears down the hall. The woman rolls her eyes and pushes hair from her forehead with the back of her hand. “Can I help you?”

It hits me: we must have gotten the wrong house. Owen must think so too, because he says, “We were looking for Mr. Haggard. Do you know where—?”

But she cuts him off. “You’re not selling anything, are you? No Bible subscriptions or anything?”

Owen shakes his head. “It’s for... a project.” His voice sounds like it’s being squeezed through a tube of toothpaste.

She waves us inside. The boy on her hip is sucking on his fingers, staring. “Come on. Everyone’s out back. Quickest way is through the kitchen.” She’s already heading down the hall and we have no choice now but to follow her. The house is small and messy in the best way. Kids’ toys and fuzzy blankets, TV showing a baseballgame and a teenage boy who doesn’t acknowledge us watching it with his elbows crooked to his knees, kitchen exploding with platters of food: potato salad, macaroni salad, hamburger meat, hot dog buns. I look at Mia and she shakes her head, as confused as I am.

A sliding glass door leads from the kitchen to the backyard. Kids are running around a wading pool, and the fence is decorated with balloons. There must be forty people out there, adults and kids, and a grill sending thick smoke into the air.

Whatever Mr. Haggard is, he isn’t lonely.

The woman pushes open the sliding door. “Dad!” she calls. “Visitors!” She turns back to us with an apologetic look. “Sorry. It’s nuts today.”

“We can come back.” Owen’s face has gone practically as red as his hair, and I know he must feel just as bad as I do. Mia is staring straight ahead with an expression on her face like she’s just seen her pet bunny electrocuted.

“No, no. It’s no trouble. Here he is now,” she says, and it’s too late: Mr. Haggard is squeezing in sideways through the door, one hand on his stomach, looking like Santa Frigging Claus, and we’re here to assassinate him, and sorry, kids, there goes Christmas.

“Hello,” he says. His eyes are twinkling. Actually twinkling. Between the twinkle and the long beard, he really does look like Father Christmas. “What can I do you for?”

The woman—his daughter—has slipped back into the yard. I see a picnic table stacked with birthday presents, a little girl wearing a princess tiara.

“This obviously isn’t a good time,” Owen says quickly. Mia lets out a whistling sound, like a punctured balloon.

Mr. Haggard waves a hand. “My youngest grandkid turns six today. Wanted to dress me up as a princess and been running me ragged all day. I’m glad for a little break.” He fumbles a pair of glasses out of his front pocket. Great. Now he looksexactlylike Santa. Then again, Old St. Nick has all those elves running around doing work for no pay, so he’s got some dirty little secrets of his own. “Now let me see. You all are too old for Girl Scout cookies. Not to mention I don’t thinkthisone fits the bill. Specially not with that shiner. Ouch.” He jerks his head at Owen and grins. “So let me think. You all raising money for the school debate team or something?”

There’s a long, horrible beat of silence. I picture the roof collapsing, the kitchen exploding, an earthquake tossing us all into the air.

“Actually”—Owen’s voice cracks and he clears his throat—“we’re volunteers from the Vermont Transportation Authority—”

Mr. Haggard plugs a finger in his ear and rubs. “The what now?”

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