On Easter, my sister’s twins dragged my six-year-old daughter into the red clay beside my workshop

Peace in a small town is often an illusion, a quiet pool of water waiting for the next stone to break its surface.

By mid-June, the sunflowers were waist-high on Callie. Their thick, bristled stalks stood like green sentinels along our driveway, their massive leaves fanning out to shade the earth beneath them.

We were sitting on the porch after dinner, watching fireflies blink over the pasture, when the headlights of a car crept slowly down the blacktop.

It wasn't Arlin’s car, and it wasn't the sheriff.

It was an old, beat-up Pontiac with a mismatched front fender and an out-of-state plate. It slowed down to a crawl as it passed our gate, the driver’s window rolled down just enough for the glowing cherry of a cigarette to be visible in the dark.

Aaron set his tea down. "You recognize that car?"

"No," I said, my pulse quickening slightly, the old defensive instincts instantly flaring back to life.

The car didn't turn in. It just lingered at the boundary of our property line for a long, agonizing minute before accelerating slowly away toward the old abandoned quarry road that bordered Arlin’s back acreage.

"Probably just lost," Aaron said, though his hand rested instinctively on the armrest near where the rifle hung inside the door.

"Nobody gets lost on Creek Road at nine o'clock at night," I replied.

The next morning, Aaron found the back cattle gate unlocked.

Not broken—unlocked.

The heavy chain had been neatly unwound and draped over the fence post. In the soft dust near the stock tank were boot prints. They weren't Arlin’s boots, and they weren't Toby’s.

They were heavy, steel-toed combat boots, size twelve, deeply treaded.

Near the gate post, stuck into the splintered wood with a rusted hunting knife, was a folded piece of yellow lined notebook paper.

Aaron pulled the knife free and brought the note to the porch.