Arch woke up as we pulled into our driveway. I needed to talk to Tom about all I’d learned, about Barton Reed, the cancer-suffering convict; Jack Gilkey, the paroled chef; Arthur Wakefield, the wine-loving antiparole activist; and Boots Faraday, the savagely unfriendly artist who’d hated the town’s art critic. But visiting time at the jail was almost over, and Tom had promised Arch he’d take him down to see his father. Before they left, Tom added that he wanted to help me make dinner, so I should wait until he returned to start.
I thanked him and hauled the precious skis upstairs, where I screamed bloody murder when I tripped over what turned out to be Arch’s physics experiment. Once I’d stored the still miraculously unbroken skis, I stomped back to the hallway, seething. A god-awful mess
