Tucker Hills was nothing more than a stretch of bramble that extended maybe a mile back and a few miles long, following a subdivision of condos. It contained a creek that picked up a decent flow before collecting into a shallow pool and disappearing into a massive drainage pipe. The area was similar to every segment of suburban wilderness left for curious children in the name of "green spaces" during housing development. In spring and summer months, boys and girls would creek walk, looking for crawfish and tadpoles and complaining when their shoes slipped off the mossy stones into soft mud. There'd be impromptu stick forts and perhaps an occasional decently-constructed plywood structure scattered throughout, and one could also find the ubiquitous litter of tween and teen mischief in regard to cigarettes and cans and long-fizzled bottle-rockets. When rain fell more often than not, the copse could flood its creek bed, soak everything around it, back up even into the condos if there was enough precipitation, and even though fall tended to be drier than spring and summer, it'd been a particularly rainy September when the boy's body had been discovered.

The crime scene had been compromised early on, first by Isaac's stumbling across it and, perhaps, displacing evidence, second by the lackadaisical efforts of the police officers who'd shown up first, and third by the storms that'd come through that evening and afternoon. But for as little veritable information as was available, everyone in the area had something to say about the crime, and Minn quickly found she didn't have to push much in order to get someone talking. There'd been the couple who were hosts at her B&B, a barista and some customers in the nearby Starbucks, the pharmacist at Walgreens, a trio of teenagers hanging outside the local library, and several random run-ins: Minn had been in town fewer than twenty-four hours, and she'd discovered that all she had to do was mention the murder and someone would share an opinion.

"Poor little boy," or some variation was what most people started with. But then there were all sorts of things after that.

"His parents won't even leave their house, now; I know them, good people. Quiet, but good people. Tore their lives up."

"All this new-age witchcraft and Satanism, teenagers listening to that evil music and playing with their Ouija boards."

"Heard he liked to drink blood, the guy—what was his name? I know—I can't remember either. He was here, like, two days. Two weeks? I don't know. But he had these parties and they cut up dead animals and drank their blood, and then he decided to try a kid . . . I don't know! I just heard it, that's all. I heard it from Pinky's cousin."

"Nah, it was the kid's dad. Step-dad, I heard. Always hated it wasn't his, I bet. Nobody told you that part, did they? There's something weird about that family."

"When you take the Lord out of everyone's lives, what can you expect? No more God-fearing young people. When you ain't afraid of God, what's to stop you, eh? You answer me that!"

"Cops are incompetent as hell. Nowhere closer to figuring it out now, and you better believe every mom is keeping her kids in until they find who done it. Crime scene something like a circus, I heard, evidence lost and everything."

"They're everywhere, these evildoers. They're hiding right in the open, among us."

"No. No. Listen—did you hear what that guy did? He fucked that kid up pretty bad. Really, really sick shit, lady. Really sick shit. You think they'll wanna come do one of those Netflix documentaries about it? You with Netflix? They can interview me. I know everything."

"Poor little boy. Oh, poor, poor thing. He'd had his—his privates cut off. That's what I heard—not that I know it for sure. Oh, God! I can't even think—how could someone—?"

By the time Minn found herself at the door of Isaac's previous foster parents' home, she'd heard such a mixture of commentary and speculation about the case that she was more conflicted than ever. Whatever grains of truth lay within the sensationalism were buried beneath her reservations concerning who fed her the information. Still, the willingness of people to discuss something they knew little about was mind-boggling.

Anne had been a help in locating Isaac's last address, even though she'd at first balked at Minn's request for the information. Minn had sworn up and down that she'd never reveal her peer's role, never compromise Anne's position, but only when the counselor came to the realization that the info was a cinch to find with only the most surface-level digging had she procured the number and address. Minn had then called the couple and informed them she was interested in fostering Isaac, and they'd almost immediately advised—in fact, insisted on—meeting for a chat. It'd been that easy! It'd really been that easy. They'd agreed to meet with her just like that, no restrictions, no legal issues, just person to person, in their own home.

The "own home" part unsettled her a little for reasons she couldn't exactly define. On the one hand, she'd be literally within Isaac's former home, closer to . . . (to what? what did she think being in his home would do? it wasn't as if she could snoop around, as if any of his belongings would even be there anymore) . . . closer to where he'd been, she supposed, but on the other hand, she'd be stuck in an enclosed space with two people who, according to him, hadn't been particularly kind. At least she wouldn't have to do much lying. She could be truthful enough with them because she genuinely was thinking of fostering the boy, and so they'd not likely find fault with her questions. It'd only make sense that anyone taking in a troubled teen would want information about his troubled past.

The moment the door opened, though, revealing a prim, austere couple probably in their fifties, Minn knew she and they would define troubled quite differently.

The older woman attempted to move her lips into what might've been a smile, but something about her jowls tugged any threatening curves right back down. "You must be Ms. Bellamy?" the woman asked.

"Yes!" Minn tried to sound calm, to sound purposeful and serious. "Thank you so much for taking the time to talk to me."

"You're . . . younger than I assumed," the older woman added abstrusely.

The couple parted, the spectacled, bearded man pulling the door back in order for Minn to enter. She had a strange feeling as she stepped across the threshold that she was entering a portal of no return, and as the door closed behind her, that sinking feeling was reflected in an impeccable foyer with its console table, bowl of crisp potpourri, and beveled accent mirror. A staircase rose overhead, leading to a vanishing landing, and on either side of the entryway spread two cream-colored, perfect rooms, one that appeared to be for dining and the other for sitting, though neither exuded much comfort. Everything was too clean; that was the first and most prominent impression she garnered. Beyond that, well, it was quiet. Very quiet. There wasn't even the sound of trickling water from an artistic fountain (the sort of thing these people looked as if they might have) or the jingle of a tiny dog's collar (because they didn't seem the type to have anything larger than a Shih Tzu). Minn couldn't even hear a clock ticking or a vent blowing out a bit of air. The living room to which she was led gave her "padded room" vibes more than contentment. This was no place for any teenager, especially one like Isaac. Frustration welled within, but she had to repress it.

Once she sat down, Minn crossed one leg over the other, clasped her hands atop her knees, and forced affability. "Thanks again for having me," she began. "I've never fostered a young person before, and I just want to be sure I'm making the right decision."

The couple shared a knowing look as they settled onto a couch across from her wingback chair, a large oval-shaped table filling the gulf between them. "I'm Laurel," the woman began. "We spoke briefly on the telephone, and this is my husband, Carl."

Minn nodded at the man, who neglected to meet her eye.

Laurel swallowed awkwardly. Her thin older white-woman throat appeared made of tissue, as if touching it would tear a hole. There was something of a startled bird about her. "We spoke for hours with the authorities, you know; they've been in and out many times—so much we thought we might have to move. The neighbors, you understand."

Carl coughed himself into the conversation. "Ms. Bellamy—"

"Minn, please."

"Yes, well, we won't talk to anyone else. But when my wife told me you were thinking of fostering the boy, I knew we had to save you from making the mistake we did, if not for any other reason than to do the Christian thing."

"Oh," Minn knew she should bite her tongue, and yet she couldn't help herself, "well, I'm not Christian, but I appreciate anything you can tell me. See, I have a son about his age, and I was hoping they might get along. But I sense Isaac has had a tough time, and I don't know how well he'll acclimate. I thought it'd be helpful to know why it didn't work out for him, here, to see if I can try not to make certain mistakes."

The couple exchanged concerned looks. "You mean—you don't know?" Laurel warbled.

"Know? Know what?"

Carl tilted his head a bit, narrowed one eye at her. "Ma'am, you mean to tell me you came all this way and it wasn't even to talk about the boy's murder?"

Minn was grateful for having taught so long; she knew how to hold a straight face in the most trying circumstances. "Murder? Not—not the murder I've heard people talking about? That little boy? What about him? No. No, I want to talk about your former foster son, Isaac Adams."

A strange sort of laugh left Laurel; it turned into something raspy, eerie. "You can't be serious."

Unsure how to respond to that—whether it'd been mockery or pity or something else—Minn shifted uncomfortably and tried to find words, but Carl beat her to it.

"Listen, Ms. Bellamy. It's difficult to believe you know nothing about Isaac, that he was connected to the boy's murder. It's been national news—well, not his name, but the story itself. His name was kept out, seeing as he wasn't ever a formal suspect, and him being a minor. But around here, there's enough talk to fill every paper from Mexico to Canada and back. Isaac was the one that found the body of that boy, and the police took him in for questioning right after. They seemed pretty keen on connecting him to the murder, and if we hadn't rushed back from out of town, I swear they would've forced a confession and arrested him right then and there."

"But you helped him?"

"Of course we did. And I've still half a mind to sue the whole damn precinct for the way they mishandled everything."

"Horrible," Laurel cut in. "The whole thing was just horrible, and we've been ostracized for all of it. We took in the boy out of charity. Several of our church members had taken in foster children, helped them see the light of God, changed their ways, and we thought with all the gifts we've been given, it was only right, to help those with less. And then the police—they treated him like some homeless ruffian, as if we weren't taking care of him properly. The absolute shame and embarrassment of it!"

Minn began to recognize a thread of unease slip its way through her. The elation she'd experienced a moment earlier began to deflate. "You helped him, though," she encouraged. "You—you must have known he was innocent. He couldn't have done it, right? Or you would've let the police have him . . . wouldn't you?"

Carl snorted, and Minn's animosity flared. "Oh, he did it all right," the man growled. "I'm absolutely certain of it."