“So what’s that supposed to mean? Your ass shouldn’t do time because you’re too important?”

“That ain’t what I said.”

“Yeah. Sure you didn’t.”

Ricky stood up to face him. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m just talking about what I got to lose. Me. Personally.” He patted his chest with an open palm, fingers splayed. “I wanna make something outta my life. My daddy expects me to be somebody.”

“Not like the rest of us, huh?”

“What’s your problem, man?”

“Nothing.” Sweed looked away. He felt the smallness of his own existence and didn’t want Ricky to see it so clearly in his eyes. The reality of it was stark in the face of his self-absorbed friend. For Sweed, there would be no fleeing from the neighborhood of leaning houses, from the drunks passed out in doorways, sleeping in their own piss. A disdain for it all, loud and shrill, were in Ricky’s words, whether or not he knew it. But it didn’t matter. Sweed had heard it, felt it. He turned for the door.

“Hey,” Ricky said softly, “the car, what are you gonna do, man?”

Sweed paused, angling his head just slightly. “Whatever it takes to look out for me.”

He bypassed Mr. Chiles on the stairs and seemed to not even notice him. Mr. Chiles had seen the news report, but hadn’t connected it to Sweed’s odd behavior. Nor did he knit it with his own son’s distant moodiness that lingered afterward.

***

Even before they found her, the folks in Loveless had convinced themselves that a white girl who went missing in the company of a black boy could only mean one thing.

The news story was four days old on that chilly 5:00 AM morning; the sky still purple and bruised; an old man and his dog spotted the dirty blond hair floating among the kelp. He waded in to see if it was, in fact, what he thought. And being sure, he was so stunned he fell backwards into the water. Fitfully, he made his way out again and called the sheriff.

They pulled out the water-swollen body. Her face had bloated like molded cauliflower; her skin was translucent as fish gills. The blue jacket told them it was her: Alison Tucker. And the triangle of yellow pubic hair screaming at them confirmed in their minds that it was rape.

Because the shadow of a black man had been cast over the dead girl’s body, her death would be forever marked by the devastation of murder, even though the coroner’s report would not prove this; more still, the accusation of rape would fuel the rage of the town who would demand payment for it.

***

The murder-rape story sizzled and crackled through all of Lake County, and right into the headlines of Chicago newspapers and the TV. What simmered with it was the town’s talk of a black boy involved, and the black families who were reported to own cabins near the northern part of the lake. The public word from the sheriff’s office was that they would talk to those people, but some folks had another kind of thinking. On the same day the evening broadcast carried the story, Sweed waited to make his move in the nighttime stillness.

He drove to a junkyard near the railroad tracks miles away from the neighborhood. He wanted to make sure the flames wouldn’t be seen. With one swoop of his hand, the torch he’d lit caught onto his alcohol soaked car seats.

He walked away and didn’t look back. But then with a suddenness that stopped him cold, he realized all of his worries had not been left among the cinders. His head pulsed with a sharp ache; they’d left the camera on the dining table back at the cabin. Were there any pictures also in plain sight? He continued on, turning his collar up against the night chill riding through the vacant lot. He tried to replay the time they spent in the cabin. Distracted, his foot left the curb; the blare of a horn came rushing at him with fierce white headlights. He stumbled back onto the sidewalk. He couldn’t be sure.

***

When Mr. Chiles looked through his window and saw police officers on his front stoop, he immediately thought there had been an accident of some kind involving his son. Ricky had been so moody lately. Quiet and withdrawn, refusing to tell his mama or his daddy what was wrong, no matter how they tried to press him. He had left early that morning with little to say.

Stilling himself against his worst fear, Mr. Chiles opened the front door. “Officers,” he said, “What can I do for you?”

There were three of them: one was from the Chicago Police Department, for sure. He was the one who did the talking. “Mr. Chiles, I’m Officer Gates. This is Officer Hughes and Officer Ferguson. They’re with the Loveless Indiana Police.” The two nodded a greeting.

Silent and with his hand still braced on the door, Mr. Chiles listened to them.

The Chicago Officer continued: “The Chicago Police are giving assistance to these Loveless officers who are investigating the death of Alison Tucker. You may have heard about it in the news.”

Mr. Chiles cleared his throat and tried to calm the painful swell in his head. Yes, he had heard about that white girl. All the black folks he knew who owned vacation property in Loveless were talking about it: the police on the hunt for a black boy to blame. Instinctively, an image of his son—sullen and distracted—came to mind; and the thing that had disturbed Mr. Chiles the most: hearing Ricky cry out in his sleep more than once recently.

“Mr. Chiles,” the Chicago officer said, “You mind answering some questions for us about your property in Loveless?”

“No sir, I don’t.” he said. He had hoped that wherever his son was, he’d stay put until the police had gone. There was a pause, as if the officers expected to be invited inside but Mr. Chiles kept quiet.

Officer Hughes asked him then, “You mind telling us when is the last time you were in Loveless?”

His tone told Mr. Chiles all he needed to know. “My wife and I haven’t been there since last spring.”

“Any other family have access to the place?”

Mr. Chiles hesitated. “Yes.”

Hughes looked at Officer Ferguson. “Who?” he asked.

“Well, we’ve got plenty of family.”

“Any boys around driving age?”

Again, he hesitated.

“Mr. Chiles?” the Chicago cop said.

“I have a boy just graduated high school,” he said.

“Does he ever go to your lake house on his own?”

“Not usually,” Mr. Chiles told them. He hoped they’d assume the inference that he’d been accompanying Ricky.

“Where is he?” Hughes said.

“He’s not here.”

“Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“No.”

“We want to talk to your boy.”

“I don’t know when he’ll be home.”

“Does he disappear often?” The Chicago cop said.

“He’s just out.”

“We’ll need to talk with him, sir,” Ferguson said.

The young one seemed more polite, Mr. Chiles thought.

“Bring him to the station when he returns home,” the Chicago cop said.

It wasn’t a request.

“I’ll see to it,” Mr. Chiles said.

***

When Ricky came home that night, Mr. Chiles pulled him into the den. He didn’t want their voices to carry upstairs.

“Sit,” Mr. Chiles told him. Ricky’s face was pained as he obeyed his father who stood over him for a second before sitting beside him on the loveseat.

“What’s the matter, dad?” His voice was faint.

“The police,” Mr. Chiles began, “they came here this afternoon. They were asking questions about our being at the cabin.”

Tensing, Ricky looked away.

Mr. Chiles went on: “You went down there last week, didn’t you? You and Sweed.”

There was a pause while Ricky continued staring at his hands.

Mr. Chiles broke the silence: “You’ve been acting so different. Me and your mama have noticed. The police, they want to ask you some questions.”

Fear widened Ricky’s eyes as he quickly turned to his father.

“You got something you want to tell me?” Mr. Chiles asked the question, afraid of the answer.

Ricky started to speak, but then shook his head.

“If—if,” Mr. Chiles began slowly, “If you don’t tell me, I can’t help.”

Pause.

“Does this have something to do with Sweed?” Mr. Chiles asked with a kernel of hope burrowed in his chest, but Ricky smashed it; he shook his head again.

Mr. Chiles stood up, hovering over Ricky. “What happened?”

Ricky massaged his forehead. “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t remember too good.” He turned his damp lashes up to his father. “We was just looking to have some fun.”

“Who?”

“Me, Sweed—and the girl.”

Mr. Chiles felt as if something heavy landed on his chest. He took a breath, stepped back and asked softly, “The one they found?

Ricky nodded. “We took her back to the cabin, just horsing around.”

“Did anybody see you?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t know.”

Mr. Chiles grabbed him by the wrists to snatch his focused attention. “Think!” he said through his teeth.