Alan didn’t say anything.
George looked an awful lot like Davey had, the day they killed him.
Mimi found a spare blanket in the closet, reeking of mothballs and scarred with a few curdled cigarette burns, and she spread it out on the floor and helped him lift Grant’s body onto it and wind it tightly around him.
“What now?” she said.
He looked down at the wound sheet, the lump within it. He sat down heavily on the bed. His chest was tight, and his breath came in short hups.
She sat beside him and put an arm around his shoulder, tried to pull his head down to her bosom, but he stiffened his neck.
“I knew this was coming,” he said. “When we killed Darren, I knew.”
She stood and lit a cigarette. “This is your family business,” she said, “why we’re driving up north?”
He nodded, not trusting his voice, seeing the outlines of Grad’s face, outlined in moth-eaten blanket.