Rebecca Grant sat at the kitchen table in the Grant homestead with her sons, empty breakfast dishes on the table between them. None of them looked as if they’d had a good night’s sleep.
‘What are we going to do, Mum?’ said Jarvis, placing his empty coffee mug on the table in front of him.
‘Wait, I suppose,’ said Rebecca.
‘About the farm?’ said Jarvis. ‘Someone has to manage the sheep and I don’t think Grandpa’s up to it.’
Rebecca roused herself. ‘I guess you’ll have to do it until your father comes home.’
‘That could be a long time, if ever,’ said Jarvis, ‘if he’s done what the police are saying he did.’
Rebecca stared at her older son. ‘You think your father is a murderer?’
Jarvis glanced across the table at his brother, who shrugged. They’d spent half the night talking about it. H
