The policeman leans forward.
‘The key to your father’s gun cabinet?’
The boy – Andrew – nods.
‘And then what happened?’
Andrew looks like he’s about to cry. Once again, the policeman tries to summon up some sympathy from inside him.
He has been through a lot, after all, this boy.
Whatever happened in the house, he must remember that.
Andrew is eight years old but looks younger.
Whatever happened, it must have been awful and traumatic.
It is understandable. There is nothing to gain from pressing him, not really.
‘Andrew? Can you tell me what happened?’
The boy shakes his head, unable to meet his eye. But again, he thinks, that doesn’t mean anything. He is only eight years old.
‘You can’t?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know what happened next?’
‘I stayed in the bedroom, like John told me.’
Despite himself, as the policeman looks at the boy, he absently touches the cross he wears around his neck.
You’re lying, he thinks. Andrew, you are lying to me.