I call one of the few numbers in my phone. It rings just once before it’s picked up, and I hear the ever-tired voice of Detective Prester of the Norton Police Department—the town nearest where we lived, no, live, because we will go back to Stillhouse Lake, I swear we will—say, “Ms. Proctor. It’s late.” He doesn’t sound happy to hear from me. “Are you one hundred percent sure that Lancel Graham is dead?”
