Clay smiles.
“What?” says Braedon. “Why are you smiling? What’s so funny?”
“Nothing,” says Clay. “I’m just impressed by your observation and deduction skills at twelve years of age. You have a lot of your grandpa Judd in you.”And a little of me, too, thinks Clay. But he’s not ready to explain that to Braedon.
“That’s good, right?”
Clay has mixed feelings about whether that’s good or not, but he says, “Very good. Grandpa Judd was an excellent policeman.” Clay hesitates, then says, “Do you know those boys on the bikes?”
“No,” says Braedon. “But I’ve seen them around. I just don’t get why they’d be up this early if they’re not fishing or hunting or working. It seems weird.”
“It might be weird,” says Clay. “Maybe steer clear of those boys.”
“Yeah,” says Braedon. “Daniel says they’re trouble.”
“Daniel’s lived here his whole life,” says Clay. “He probably knows what he’s talking about.”
Braedon watches the boys pedal off down a side street and nods. Clay watches them, too. Checking out their sweatshirts to see if they’re hanging unevenly, an indicator that they could be carrying something heavy in one pocket. He shakes his head. They’re kids, for god’s sake. He’s being ridiculous.
Clay drives the F-150 through the entirety of Riverwood’s eight-block-long Main Street before he turns off toward his own father’s house. Three generations of Hawkins men living in one small town. Clay had never thought such a thing was possible, mostly because he never thought he’d move back. But now they’re here and he has no intention of leaving anytime soon.
“Are we really going to meet Grandpa Judd’s girlfriend tomorrow night?” says Braedon, whose mind, thankfully, is off Uncle Teddy’s disappearance.
“That’s the plan,” says Clay.
Braedon shakes his head. “Grandpa Judd is in his sixties. So is Mei. She should be called his womanfriend. Or oldwomanfriend. Not girlfriend.”
“That’s not how it works,” says Clay. “Even if Grandpa Judd and Mei were a hundred, they’d still be called boyfriend and girlfriend.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” says Braedon. At twelve years old he has the world figured out. Everyone else, obviously, is bonkers.
Clay catches sight of himself in the rearview mirror. He pushes his hair out of his eyes. He’s due for a trim. “You sureyou’re okay hanging out with Grandpa today? You don’t want to go fishing with me?”
“I like regular fishing,” says Braedon. “Not fly-fishing. And Grandpa Judd’s going to let me shoot the pistol out back. So yeah, I’m sure I’m okay hanging out with him today.” He twists his lips and adds, “Sorry.”
“No need to apologize,” says Clay. “I’m glad you and Grandpa get along so well. And you listen to him about gun safety—you won’t find a better teacher than Grandpa Judd.”
Braedon watches a deer eat alfalfa in a field of green. “How old was Grandpa when his mom died?”
“He was in his fifties. You were just a little guy.”
“Can he be in our Lads Without Mums club?”
“No,” says Clay. “It doesn’t count for people who had their moms into their fifties. I’m afraid it’s just you and me. Lads Without Mums.” Clay holds out his fist for Braedon to bump.
Braedon makes a fist and does just that. “Lads Without Mums.”
CHAPTER 2
“Can I shoot for a while before breakfast?” says Braedon.
“Sure,” says Judd. He pats his grandson on the shoulder and adds, “Go out back and set up the cans. I’ll bring the gun out in a minute.”
“Thanks, Grandpa.” Braedon practically skips into the house and toward the sliding glass door that leads to the redwood deck out back. Clay remains on the front porch. His father didn’t invite him inside, and Clay doesn’t much want to go inside. He wants to get on the river.
Judd Hawkins lives on three acres backed by a limestone bluff and Liar’s Creek, so named because the property once belonged to Leon Miller, who arrived in 1853 and set up shop as a cobbler. He soon married a young local woman and lobbied the county to have the creek named Miller’s Creek after his new family. But when another woman showed up from Philadelphia,went straight to the local sheriff, and presented a marriage license that proved Leon Miller was her husband, the bigamist was fined three hundred dollars and sentenced to one year in jail. After that, the citizens of Fillmore County began referring to the tributary as Liar’s Creek. The name became official in 1887.
This is the house Clay grew up in. One above-ground story and a half-submerged basement with a walkout to the backyard. This is the house Clay swore he’d never return to. But life has a way of teaching cocksure eighteen-year-olds what’s what.
