Came the scrape of a footstep on the porch, and they looked up at Jack, standing in the doorway, the palm of his right hand resting on the butt of his gun.
“Is Molly here?” he asked hoarsely.
“Molly?” His mother got up and came close to him. “She isn’t here, Jack.”
“Ain’t she?” He leaned his shoulder wearily against the doorway, shaking his head. “I—I thought she might be. I just came from home. There’s a dead man on the sofa, and the furniture is all upset. It wasn’t that way when they took me and Eph King to jail.”
“Didn’t she leave any word, Jack—no note nor anything?”
He shook his head and came into the room.
“Where’s Marsh Hartwell?”
He did not call him “Dad.”
But before either of the women had a chance to reply, the sheriff and Sunshine Gallagher stepped through the doorway behind Jack. The sheriff held a gun in his hand. Jack turned quickly, his hand going instinctively toward his holstered gun.
“Don’t do it, Jack,” warned the sheriff quickly.