Page 13 of The Pact

“Nope. Just me and my lonesome.”

“Did you leave the house at any time today?”

“Went down to the farm store for a case of oil.”

“What time was that?”

“Noon or so.”

“You got a receipt?”

“Probably.”

He turns to close the door behind him. I catch a whiff of dirty hair and bad breath, and take another step back, a combination of caution and distaste. Tomasetti holds his ground.

“What’s this all about, anyway?” He glances at the bottle of beer on the grill, but makes no move to retrieve it.

“Have you seen or been around any kids lately?” I ask.

His eyes go flat. “You here to hassle me or what?”

Tomasetti gives him a hard look. “Just answer the question.”

“Two boys went missing this afternoon,” I tell him.

O’Neil looks away. “I ain’t seen no one.”

“Do you mind if we take a quick look inside?” I ask.

“You got a warrant?”

I pat my cell phone. “Your parole officer doesn’t need one.” I don’t know the terms of his parole, but it’s an effective bluff, because he turns to the door, opens it. I glance at Tomasetti, who looks back at me and shrugs.

O’Neil goes through the door. I follow, Tomasetti right behind me. The living room is a cramped space that smells of cigarette smoke and dirty clothes. A window-unit air conditioner sits in the window. A lamp with a crooked shade throws dim light onto a ragtag sofa and recliner. A decent-size TV tuned to a football game sits atop what looks like a garage-sale night table.

To my right, a cluttered kitchen sports faux-wood cabinets. Formica counters. A harvest-gold sink full of dishes that have been washed and left to dry.

I catch Tomasetti’s eye, motion toward the bedrooms in the back. I stroll into the kitchen, aware that O’Neil is following me. “Where are you working these days, Mr. O’Neil?” I ask, hoping to keep him occupied while Tomasetti snoops.

“I’m still down at the grain co-op.”

“You’ve been there a while, haven’t you?”

“Eight months now.”

I touch a stack of magazines and a single folded newspaper on the bar. Popular Science. Playboy. Last Sunday’s edition of The Advocate. “You’re a reader.”

“Last I checked that wasn’t against the law.”

I look at him, aware that Tomasetti has disappeared down the hall that leads into the bedrooms. O’Neil is looking at the magazines, nervous because he can’t remember what’s in the stack and he thinks I’m going to bust him for contraband. He doesn’t like me poking around, asking questions. Because he’s a parolee? Or does he have something to hide?

“You’ve been keeping your nose clean,” I say.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Nothing of interest in the kitchen. No sign that a child has been here.

“You have any firearms in the house, sir?”