On the screen, the back kitchen door swung open and threw a rectangle of yellow light across the patio bricks.

Clay’s official rig schedule from the North Dakota oil field was pinned to the corkboard right next to the monitor.

I pointed at the sheet.

“You were working an eighteen-hour shift in Williston that night,” I said.

“Your pay stub showed thirty-eight hundred dollars for that two-week rotation.”

Clay looked from the corkboard to the screen.

On the screen, Jaclyn came out onto the patio in a blue flannel bathrobe.

She was dragging five-year-old Benji by his upper arm.