“You didn’t see him yesterday morning?”

Sally shook her head. “I assumed he came home after I went to bed. I’m rarely up that late, and I’m used to not seeing him until the next day. Yesterday morning I figured he was sleeping in . . . he often does. I showered, dressed, and went to the grocery store and ran a few errands. It wasn’t until I got back to the house that I saw the shooting on the news at noon.”

“What about your husband?” asked Ray.

“He leaves for work at six thirty. I was asleep when he left.”

Mason made a note. “Was Justin’s car here?”

“No,” said Sally. “Eric told me he noticed it wasn’t parked on the side of the driveway, but he wasn’t concerned. Justin often sleeps over at one of his friends’ houses. Especially if they’ve worked the late shifts together.”

“A red Toyota Corolla, correct?” Mason asked. “You must have noticed it was gone when you went to the grocery store.”

“Yes, it’s red, and I did notice. But my thoughts were the same as Eric’s . . . that Justin had slept somewhere else. He does it about once a week.” Her fingers moved from shredding the tissue to picking at the pattern in the tablecloth, tugging at a loose thread. “It wouldn’t have mattered. Even if I’d noticed that he hadn’t been at home that morning, the shooting had already taken place.” She looked up, fresh moisture in the corners of her eyes. “I should have checked him first thing yesterday morning, maybe—”

“Mrs. Yoder.” Ray leaned forward. “You couldn’t have stopped it.”

Her eyes indicated she wanted to believe Ray, but Mason knew she’d be doubting and carrying guilt for a long time.

Her shoulders hunched, and she buried her face in her hands. “I can’t believe Justin did this . . . I can’t believe he’s gone. Nothing makes sense.” She looked up, and her gaze pleaded with both men. “He wouldn’t hurt anyone! I know my boy . . . are you sure it’s him? I wanted to go to the morgue and see but they told me to wait until they had him ready.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “The medical examiner told me he shot himself in the head. Is that true?”

The pillar of strength that’d answered the door was starting to crumble, and Mason wished her husband would hurry up. Sally Yoder shouldn’t be sitting alone with the police. “He did,” Mason answered. “I’ve seen him. I don’t think he suffered.”

“Of course he suffered!” she shouted, rising out of her chair. “He shot himself! Something drove him to that point! Something so bad he couldn’t live with himself, so he must have been suffering! Don’t try to sugarcoat this for me. My son is dead.” Her voice cracked, and she slowly sat back down. “And he took other people with him.” She looked at her hands knotted in her lap, and her head swayed back and forth as a low raw wail erupted from the depths of her lungs. “He was my only child.”

Mason froze, but within a second Ray had moved next to the mother, his hand on her shoulder and words of comfort streaming easily from his lips. Mason didn’t have that skill. He knew he had compassion: his heart overflowed with compassion for victims, their families, lonely children, and sad pets. But he sucked at expressing it. Feeling as inadequate as generic toilet paper, he waited. This was Ray’s territory. His partner knew Mason’s shortcomings and how to cover them.

A door slammed and a tall, angular man strode into the room. “Sally?” Eric Yoder looked dressed for the golf course, not the bank.

Ray caught Mason’s eye.

Golf or casual Friday?

Ray backed off as Sally stood to meet her husband. They embraced, and she hid her face in his neck as he rubbed her back and his dark eyes glared at the investigators over her shoulder. Eric Yoder looked like a stereotypical banker. Tall, silver-haired, and imposing.

Mason introduced himself and Ray. Sally Yoder pulled herself together and made her husband sit down. He sat heavily and studied the two men. Now that he was sitting, Mason could see he was exhausted. His gaze seemed heavy as he made eye contact. As if he could barely keep his gaze off the floor.

Or as if he was self-medicating.

“Mr. Yoder—” Mason began.

“Eric, please.”

Mason summarized what Sally Yoder had told them. Eric nodded. “Justin sometimes sleeps over at Paul’s house. I assumed that’s where he was when I left yesterday morning.”

“Do you know where Justin got the weapon? Do you have guns in the house?”

Both parents shook their heads. “No guns in the house,” said Eric. “We’ve never owned any. I took him to a range a couple years ago to shoot, but I don’t think he cared for it that much. He never asked me to take him back.”

“What about his friends? What about his friends’ parents? Where could he have gotten the rifle?” Mason pushed.

Sally and Eric looked at each other. “I’m honestly not sure if any of his friends have guns,” Sally said. “He’s never mentioned anything. I can’t say I’ve heard a parent mention it.” Her voice cracked. “I probably don’t know his friends as well as I should.”

“He’s twenty,” said Ray. “He’s an adult. You aren’t expected to watch over every move he makes. Is he in school, too?”

“He tried,” Eric said. “He went to the community college after he graduated, but after one term he didn’t want to go back. His grades weren’t that great in high school, and he wasn’t interested in any particular field of study except his acting classes. We weren’t about to pay for him to go flunk out of an expensive college somewhere or pay his rent in LA to be an actor or join a band.”