No matter how many times I see it, the ugliness and senselessness of it frighten me on some primal level. My speedometer hits eighty miles per hour on the highway, but I slow to a reasonable speed once I reach Thigpen Road because it’s slick with snow. The Huffman place is down a short lane and surrounded by skeletal trees, like bony fingers holding the place together. I turn the Explorer in to the driveway and follow the tire tracks to the rear of the house. Ronnie Stedt and a teenaged girl I don’t recognize huddle inside a pickup truck. Jamming the Explorer into Park, I swing open the door. The kids disembark and rush toward me. “What happened?” I ask. Stedt’s face is the color of paste. His eyes are glassy. He stops a couple of feet away and I smell vomit. “There’s a dead person inside.” I look at the female. Her cheeks are bright red and streaked with mascara. She looks a lot tougher than Ronnie Stedt. “What’s your name?” I ask. “J-Jess Hardiman.” “Is there anyone else in the house?”
