PART 1 — “Look in His Bag, Claire”

The mail carrier had left the water bill for eighty-two dollars face down in the black metal mailbox at the end of the driveway.

I stood on the damp gravel, the smell of wet pine needles heavy in the October air, watching the yellow school bus round the curve by the township park.

It was a cold, quiet Thursday afternoon, the kind that came just before the first freeze.

The bus did not usually slow down fifty yards before our house.

That afternoon it crawled toward the driveway, its yellow side streaked with road grime, before stopping directly in front of the cedar post.

The engine shuddered.

Dead leaves trembled on the nearby bushes.

Vance, who had taken over our elementary school route in September, did not open the passenger doors.

He leaned out of the driver’s window, his face gray beneath the brim of his cap.

“Claire.”

His voice barely carried over the diesel engine.

He kept his eyes on the road, his thumb tapping quickly against the steering wheel.

“Is Ethan okay?” I asked, taking two steps closer.

“Look in his bag, Claire.”

“What do you mean?

Did something happen at school?

Did he get into trouble?”