Page 142 of Not a Word

“I . . . thought he was going to . . . I had to get it away . . .”

“Gage. Gage!”

Brent’s tone was like a slap in the face. Gage took a breath before looking at his grandfather.

“There are things we’re going to have to do,” Brent said with forced calm. “You tried to do what was right, and you shouldn’t be punished for that. You’re a good boy, you’ve always made me proud, and I want to see you grow up to be a fine young man. We can’t let what happened here do anything to stop that.”

“But . . . it happened. It’s . . . I’ll tell the police I didn’t mean it. I—”

“You won’t have to tell the police anything.”

“You’ll tell them. You’ll tell them I didn’t mean it.”

“I won’t have to tell them either. But I’ll let them know.”

Gage looked at him, puzzled, not understanding.

Brent, thinking, said, “I’ll leave them a note.”

Gage slowly shook his head, still not understanding what his grandfather was up to.

“First, I want you to pick up that gun and give it to me,” Brent said. “Grab it by the butt and be very, very careful. That’s it, that’s good.”

Gage gave him the gun. Brent used the bed’s top sheet to thoroughly wipe it down, erasing any fingerprints that might already be on it.

“Now, you have to listen to me,” he said. “I want you to go into the bathroom and wash your hands and up your arms like you’ve never done before. Like a doctor getting ready for surgery.”

Gage was wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt, no jacket.

“Why—”

“Just do that, and when you’re done I want you to go into my study and get me a pad, one of the ones that has my name on the top, and a pen. You got that?”

Gage nodded.

He went into the bathroom, did as his grandfather said, and lathered up. Once he had thoroughly washed his hands and arms up to his elbows, he dried off, then went to the study and found Brent’s personalized stationery. He brought the pad, and a pen, back to Brent, who hadn’t moved.

“That’s good, that’s good,” he said. “You washed up like I said?”

Gage nodded.

“You know why I had you do that?”

“I think so.”

“Okay.” He wiped the pen with the bedsheet, just as he’d done with the gun, then did the same with the front and back of the notepad. With the pen, he wrote a short note, tore it off, and gave it to Gage.

“That’s for your uncle. And you’re going to need to catch up to him, tell him there’s nothing to worry about. I’m going to take care of everything.”

Then he started writing another note, which he set on the bedside table to be found later.

“I don’t understand,” Gage said, although he was starting to, and he didn’t like where this was going.

“You remember what I told you when you stole those chips?”

Gage tried to think back.

“You said I was an idiot.”