Mr. Henderson, who always wanted extra gravy.

Mrs. Gable, who bought three blueberry muffins every Thursday for her grandkids.

They were safe in their beds, completely unaware of the darkness shifting beneath their town.

I turned onto Main Street.

The streetlights cast long, yellow pools on the wet asphalt.

The sheriff’s department was a low, brick building next to the county courthouse.

A single light was on in the front lobby, but the glass doors were dark.

I drove around to the alley behind the building.

The sally port was a fenced-in area where they parked the patrol cars.

As I pulled up, the chain-link gate began to roll open.

A deputy stood by the control panel, his silhouette dark against the building.

It was Miller.

He waved me forward with a flashlight.

I drove the van inside the secure yard, and the gate rolled shut behind me.

The metal click of the lock felt very final.

I turned off the engine.

The silence inside the van was sudden and heavy.

I looked at the passenger seat.

The yellow towel-wrapped ledger lay there, a quiet bomb.