“Mom.”
“Yes?”
“I wanted to call the sheriff.”
“I know.”
“I still do.” His voice shook, just a little. “He took it. He took it, and he lied to Arlen, and he lied to Gene, and he told them you were selling the place. He told them you wanted to. I stood in this yard and watched him. And you just baked a pie.”
I looked at my son. He was tall like Tom, already, with Tom’s shoulders and my stubborn chin, and his eyes were red-rimmed and furious. Seventeen years old. He’d driven a tractor since he was nine.
“I want to tell you why,” I said.
“You don’t have to.”
“I think I do.” I set the clipboard on a bale. “Your father died on a Tuesday. We buried him on a Saturday. And on the Tuesday after, your uncle sat in our kitchen and told me what he’d done, and I could have called the sheriff, and I’d have been right.”
