PULLER SAT IN a chair in his motel room and stared at the duffel.

 

It was just an ordinary duffel.

 

Canvas.

 

Zippered.

 

Crammed with stuff that helped Puller do what he did.

 

Find the truth.

 

What he did. All he ever wanted to do.

 

Was that because his mother had left the house and never come back?

 

Because some evil had made sure she couldn’t ever come back?

 

And was that evil his own father?

 

He covered his face with his hands, the impossible burden of this thought

threatening to crush him without a gram of actual weight behind it.

 

Then he sat up straight and composed himself.