It was written in dried blood on the floor of the millhouse with a scatter of yellow, white, and gold corn. The handwriting was thin, almost delicate. Sadie figured the preacher had cut open his own finger and used it to make the letters. “He got his Bible back,” Mickey-Gene said faintly. “I’m sorry — I must’ve done it all wrong.” “No. No. He has a sense for the thing, like a hound on the scent of what he’s hunting. I think he would’ve found it no matter what.” “So what do we do now?” Sadie didn’t blame him, but she really wished he’d stop being so scared, and confused, or whatever he was. She felt terrible and mean-spirited for thinking it, but there it was. They’d gone down to the next farm and told the old man there what they’d found. His son rode out to get the deputy and then over to tell Momma. Sadie and Mickey-Gene had waited by the wagons until everybody got there. It took very little to convince Momma not to go around back. The deputy had just asked who they thought could’ve done such a thing and Momma hadn’t even looked at him.
