ECKER CAUGHT A bus a block over from the courthouse and rode it to within a half mile of where he was going. As his large feet carried him down the sidewalk, the color blue intensified in his head until it seemed that the entire world had been covered in it. Even the sun seemed to have been transformed into an enormous blueberry so utterly swollen that it seemed it might burst at any moment.

It sickened him but he kept on going, his breath growing heavier and his tread slowing. He was out of shape, but that was not the reason. The reason was just up ahead.

When he turned the corner and saw the house he stopped, but only for a moment. If he didn’t pick up his pace, he knew he would turn and run away.

It was still bank-owned. No one had wanted to move in there even at a reduced price. Hell, they probably couldn’t give it away. And there were lots of empty houses in Burlington. It was a place one wanted to get away from, not move to. The front door, he knew, was locked. The door off the carport and into the kitchen had always been easy to jimmy. He wondered if the killer had gone in that way. Leopold had said that was his ingress, if he was to be believed.

He passed by the front and opened the chain-link gate to the backyard. The color blue had initially been limited to the bodies. Now the entire property and everything within a half mile of it was blue. He had first experienced this the third time he had returned to the house, and it had been that way ever since. He could never adequately explain to anyone what it felt like to see blue grass, blue trees, blue siding on a house you knew was painted yellow. Even the blue sky felt different because all the clouds were also that color.

He eyed the tree in the back and the swing dangling from it. He’d put that up himself because Molly had wanted one. When she was little Decker would push her. Sometimes he had pushed Cassie and Molly together. It had been cheap entertainment for a young couple with little money.

Now the rope was rotted and the long plank of wood Decker had fashioned for a seat was warped and splintered. The bank was having someone cut the grass, but it was full of weeds.

He turned to look at the rear of the house. The back door led into a small utility room. Had that actually been how the killer had entered?

He jimmied this door easily enough. It seemed none of the locks on the house worked very well, something that, again, caused him enormous guilt. A policeman who couldn’t even secure his own house?

He closed the door behind him and looked around. Short flight of steps up to the kitchen. Where his brother-in-law had sat drinking beer until someone had sliced his neck from ear to ear.

He went up the blue steps and stepped into the blue kitchen. It was full of dust and some dead insects were on the floor and on the countertops. He eyed the spot where the kitchen table had been. That’s where Johnny Sacks had been attacked.

The blood had long since been cleaned up, but Decker remembered where every drop had been. Not red now,all blue, like the color of blood as seen inside veins through one’s skin, only a thousand times more potent.

He passed into the next room and up the stairs. The same stairs he had taken three at a time on that night. Bouncing off walls, oblivious to whoever might have been in here harming his family.

The mattress and box springs were gone from their bedroom. Evidence. They were at a secure storage unit maintained by the Burlington police. They might be there forever.

Still, he clearly saw her bare foot raised up above the bed. He crossed the room and looked down and saw neon-blue Cassie on the floor. The only thing that wasn’t blue about her was the single gunshot wound to her head. Even in Decker’s altered mind it would forever be just like it actually was: black and blistered.

He turned and left because his resistance was wearing down and he had other rooms to visit.

He opened the bathroom door and looked at the toilet where his child had been seated, the bathrobe cord cruelly holding her dead body in place.

Leopold had not explained that. He had just done it. Didn’t really know why. Felt right. He said. The man no one could identify. The man who wanted to plead guilty and die.

He looked down at the spot where he had sat cross-legged with the gun first inside his mouth and then pressed against his temple. His dead daughter in front of him. He had wanted to join her, he guessed, in death. But he hadn’t pulled the trigger. The cops had come and recognized him and talked him out of the weapon. It was a wonder they hadn’t shot him. Maybe it would have been better if they had.

He turned and walked back down the hall to the next door.

Molly’s room. He had only been here a few times since cleaning it out after her death.

The noise from inside caused him to stop, his hand halfway to the knob. He looked around. He had left his gun back in his room because he knew he had been going to the courthouse. He listened some more and then his tension eased. It was not human feet he was hearing.

Scampering, tapping, tiny.

He opened the door in time to see a rat disappear into a hole in the drywall.

He could recall every stick of furniture, the placement of every stuffed animal, the location of each book, for Molly had been a voracious reader.

Decker had been about to fully enter the room when he stopped and stiffened. There was something here that his perfect memory did not recall, and with good reason. Because it had not been here the last time Decker had been in this room.

On the wall, written in red block letters.

We are so much alike, Amos. So much. Like brothers. Do you have a brother? Of course you don’t. I checked. Sisters, yes, but no brother. So can I be yours? We’re really all the other has now. We need each other.

He read through this message three times. He wanted to dig beneath the words and discover the author. But the more he stared at the words, the more unsettled he became. The person had come back here. Had come back here to write this message to him. This was not about some perceived slight at a 7-Eleven. This was deeply personal with Decker.

As the message had said, Decker had no brother. He had two sisters. Long since moved away. One in California with her Army husband and four kids. The other was in Alaska, childless but prospering and enjoying life with her oil executive husband. They had come for the funerals and then had gone back home. He had not spoken to them since. His fault. They had tried. Repeatedly. He had rebuffed. Repeatedly.

But still, he had to make sure. Whoever had written this message had done his homework. Sisters.

He slowly pulled his phone from his pocket and texted each of them. He waited, waited, waited. Then a pop on his phone. California sister was fine and happy to hear from him.

Two minutes later he hadn’t moved. It was even earlier in Alaska. Maybe she wasn’t up—

Another pop. His sister from Fairbanks had texted. She was fine. To please call when he got a chance.

He punched in another number and waited for the person to answer.

“Lancaster,” the voice said.

Decker said, “Mary, you need to see something. And you need to see it now.”