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enough to understand that crossing my father came at a price, and normally any dues owed him were paid in blood.
    I think about my mother on the walk back home from the Luckmans’. The sad truth is I have few intact memories of her. Those that do survive are grainy images. Flashes of feelings, evoked by emotion. I am sure that more exist, but they lie shrouded in darkness, deep down, where I don’t dare go.
    The house is mortuary cold.
    I dump my snow-heavy boots on a rubber mat and power up the furnace. The house hasn’t been heated in a week, or more. Frost on the inside of the window panes and ghosts in the shadows.
    Four unanswered messages lie in wait on the answering machine in the kitchen. I press the Play button and listen to the recordings as I drink week-old milk from the fridge.
    Deep in the bowels of the house, the ancient furnace stirs to life. Knocking pipes tapping out the tune from The Exorcist .
    If Ned has his way he’ll have me chasing down his daughter’s killer, to do unto him that which he did unto her. An eye for an eye. Old Testament retribution brought bang up to date. But Ned hasn’t done it himself. It’s one thing to follow your heart instead of your head, but when it comes to the crunch, killing another human isn’t like swatting a fly. It takes a completely different mindset to deliberately take a life. And once it’s done, there’s no coming back. Their ghost will haunt you for the rest of your life.
    The milk is on the verge of turning, but I gulp it down without complaint; I’ve drunk far worse in my time. By the looks of things, there’s not much of anything worth eating in the fridge: some amorphous foodstuffs that have grown fur coats for the winter . Cupboards offer little more in the way of sustenance. I dig a fist into a box of opened cereal and munch on a handful of stale cornflakes as the first answering machine message come s to life:
     
    “Olson, this is Chief Meeks. Long time no see. I heard you were on your way back to town. Call me the minute you get in, and I mean the minute. I’ve got paperwork you need to sign and forms you need to fill out. Plus, I need to lay down some ground rules. Call me. I mean it, Olson. Don’t piss me off and make me come looking for you.”
     
    This is the first time I have stood in this kitchen as an adult. It feels smaller, cramped, but otherwise the same. Olive green walls and stained countertops. Everything still in desperate need of updating, fixing. As with the rest of the house, it remains as it was the day my mother walked out, the day my father dived into the bottle and never resurfaced.
    The second message is mostly static but contains a background noise that sounds like a TV with the volume turned low. No one speaks into the phone itself. The recording lasts about thirty seconds before it disconnects.
    I wash the cereal down as the third message clicks on. A woman’s voice, saying:
     
    “This is a message for Jake Olson. Hello, Mr. Olson. My name’s Dr. Beth Townsend. I’m calling about your father. I believe you are the next of kin and you’ve been apprised of the situation. It’s my understanding you’re on your way home. Please return my call on this number as a matter of urgency, or at your earliest convenience. I’m working the night shift at the hospital this weekend, so if you’d like to speak face to face, I’ll be here. Thank you.”
     
    In my pocket, my cell phone vibrates. It’s a text message from the same number Lars called me on earlier.
    One word: Well?
    With clumsy thumbs I type back Meet me at Merrill’s at 7 .
    On the answering machine, the fourth and final recording clicks in. It comes with the same indistinct TV noise as the previous anonymous message, but this time a male voice growls through t he stat ic:
     
    “You knew the rules, duckweed. Come back and you die. I thought I’d made it perfectly clear. Your funeral. Now you’re a dead man walking.”

Chapter Four
    T hese days, Tolstoy