Chapter 17: The Night We Put It Down

Devon's POV

Lacey stood outside the wall with her hands wrapped around the steel bars.

Her honey hair was matted, and there was mud to her knees.

She looked like someone who had walked a long way and cried most of it.

A small boy stood beside her, maybe seven, in a coat too big for him.

"Devon," she said. "Thank God."

I didn't move.

"I didn't know where else to go," she said. "Brent's gone. Everyone's gone. I've been walking with this boy for three days."

She pushed the boy forward an inch.

"He's my cousin's," she said. "I couldn't leave him."

I let Appraise run.

Carrying: a hand radio, a folding knife, a brass key.

Intent: taking.

The brass key was my father's key, the copy she had made last summer.

The old gate lock was dead, and I had welded the new one myself.

Conroy stood a step behind me with his rifle low and said nothing.

"Please," Lacey said. "You can't leave a child out here."

"No," I said. "I can't."

Her whole face softened with relief.

"But you can leave him with me," I said. "And you can stay on that side."

The softness stopped.

"He's my responsibility," she said.

"Then you can't be afraid to hand him over."

"Devon, we've known each other since we were eight."

"I know."

"I carried your casseroles. I held your hand at your dad's funeral."

"You held it at the tailgate too," I said. "You put your palm over a boy's eyes so he wouldn't see what Brent did."

She went absolutely still.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she whispered.

"I know you don't."

She couldn't know, and she could see in my face that I did.

The boy looked up at her.

Then he looked at me, and I saw his small hand tighten on her sleeve.

"The key doesn't work anymore," I said. "Go home, Lacey."

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