Andrew slipped into his room to change, hurriedly throwing on jeans and a T-shirt.
There was no way the voices could have been referring to his brother, he thought as he dried his hair. Simon was dead; he had shot him. The fingers of the children, the child killings. Those things he may or may not have been wrong about, but he had pulled that trigger. He had seen the look on Simon’s face as the bloodstain had spread across his shirt. He had seen the face of his father when he had come home and seen what had happened. No, there was no doubt Simon was long dead. He would always remember the smell of the discharged firearm and the powerful recoil. . . .
His thoughts were interrupted by a yell from outside his room. They must have found the body. A moment later the shout was followe
