“They’re welcome to meet us at the county station, Mr.

Caldwell,” the officer said.

“Step back toward the back door of the cruiser.”

Trent stayed where he sat on the concrete curb beside the toppled plastic cones, his blue leather gloves lying slack between his boots.

He didn’t raise his head when the back door of the police car closed with a dull thud.

His shoulders jerked once, then again, a nineteen-year-old athlete crying softly into his knees while three longtime neighbors looked on from their front yards.

Officer Vance gathered the six blue evidence folders off the hood of the golf cart, together with the certified 1984 township deed Nora had carried out from her porch.