Page 69 of Broken Things

But Owen just keeps talking, raising his voice a little, as if he can drown out any of Haggard’s objections. “To administer a quick survey about the public school bus systems as compared to private systems—”

“Oh boy.” He heaves himself onto one of the kitchen stools, still smiling. “Sounds heavy.”

Owen finally runs out of breath and stands there, half gasping. “Just a few questions,” he adds. “About your experience, and your bus route, and what the kids are like.”

“Were,” Haggard says. “I retired last year.”

“Okay,” Owen says. “What the kidswerelike.”

Haggard turns his smile on me. I feel like an ant underneath a magnifying glass. “Well, why don’t you just ask these girls? Bet you remember the old bus route just fine.”

“You—you remember us,” I stutter.

His smile finally goes dim. “’Course I do. You were my three musketeers. You two and the other girl, Summer. Terrible what happened to her.” It’s clear from the way he says it that he doesn’t think we had anything to do with it.

I try to beam to Owen and Mia that we should get the hell out of here and leave Haggard and his grandkids in peace.

Apparently Mia doesn’t get the message, because she blurts out, “Mr. Haggard, we’re sorry. We haven’t been honest. We’re not here for a survey. We’re here about Summer. We’re trying to find out what really happened to her.”

Forget the earthquake. Here’s to hoping a renegade tiara whizzes in through the doors to decapitate all three of us.

“I see.” Haggard scratches his head through the thinning slick of his hair. “Well, I’m not sure whether I can be much help....”

“You—you remember her, though?” If I’m going to hell anyway, I might as well make sure I’ve good and earned it.

“Sure. I remember all my kids. Drove a bus for forty years andknew that route like the back of my hand.”

“Did you grow up in Vermont?” Owen asks, and I know he must be thinking of St. Louis.

“Born and bred,” Haggard says. He gives his stomach a thwack. “They make us bigger out here, huh?” But his smile fades again. “She was trouble, that one. Tell you that. Had a mean streak.” Then, as though he remembers who he’s talking to, he stands up. “But you probably knew that, huh? I felt sorry for her.”

Mia shoots Owen a look I don’t have time to puzzle out. “How come?” I say.

“She seemed lonely,” he says. “Even when she was with her friends, with you two, she seemed lonely. Lost, you know?”

Lonely. Lost.The words remind me of the passages we pulled about the Shadow. Was Summer the Shadow all along? I never thought of Summer as lonely, not once. But then I remember the night she climbed in through my window, the way her ribs looked, standing out in the moonlight, her tears running into my mouth even as we kissed.

Nobody loves me, she said, over and over again. Her chest spasmed against my palms, like she was dying.Nobody, nobody, nobody.

Were we wrong about everything? Maybe there was no mysterious Shadow in real life, no one who got close to her and started feeding her stories. Maybe she did write the pages herself. Maybe some psycho met her in the woods and just seized his chance.

A little boy comes tumbling into the kitchen, knees grass-stained and face all scrunched up and red, wailing. He holds out his arms.

“Grandpa,” he says. “Grandpa, Grandpa.”

“What’s the matter, Gregg?” Haggard places a wrinkled hand on the kid’s head. I give it a last shot and try to picture that hand wrapped around a knife, bringing a blade down into Summer’s chest and neck, over and over. But my brain just burps and goes quiet.

The woman who let us into the house is a second behind Gregg, drawing him away. “Oh, you’re fine. Gregg,honestly. It was just a little tumble. And you know Grandpa can’t pick you up.” But she picks him up and plants a kiss on his forehead before rolling her eyes at us and hauling him back outside.

“Slipped disc,” Haggard says to us, placing a hand on his back and making anoh boy, that’s ageface. “Used to volunteer with the EMT. Had a bad fall when my own kids were barely out of diapers. Can’t barely lift a shovel in wintertime.” He shakes his head.

That’s that. Whoever killed Summer also had to drag her. Mr. Haggard can’t even pick up a toddler.

“We’re sorry for barging in on you like this, Mr. Haggard.” Owen’s still glowing red as a hot pepper. He’s put two and two together, too. “We’re sorry for wasting your time.”

“It’s no trouble.” For a second, he looks like he’s about to say more. Then I find a name for his expression: pity. He feels sorry for us. “I hope you all find what you’re looking for.”

But as we make our way back into the heat, leaving the noise of shouting kids and laughter behind, just another summer Wednesday, trees bursting like the joy is coming out through their branches, I know that we won’t.

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