Welcome to Spencerville, Virginia, 1977. A time when teenagers roamed wild and free. When sons worshipped God, loved their mothers, and feared their fathers. And when eight-year-old Rocky still worshipped his older brother, Paul--sixteen and full of rebel cool--who was happy to have his younger brother as his sidekick, until one day things went terribly wrong and Paul disappeared. Seven years later, Rocky, now a teenager himself, must reckon with the past after a mysterious double murder brings terror and suspicion to their small town, and to their broken family. It's 1977, and eight-year-old Rocky worships his older brother, Paul, who is happy to have his younger brother as his sidekick, until one day, Paul disappears. When, seven years later, a mysterious double murder brings terror and suspicion to Rocky's small town, Rocky and his family must reckon with the past and find out how much forgiveness their hearts can hold. Ed Tarkington's debut novel Only Love Can Break Your Heart was an ABA Indies Introduce selection, an Indie Next pick, a Book of the Month Club Main Selection, and a Southern Independent Booksellers Association bestseller. A regular contributor to Chapter16.org, his articles, essays, and stories have appeared in a variety of publications, including the Nashville Scene, Memphis Commercial Appeal, Knoxville News-Sentinel, and Lit Hub. He lives in Nashville, Tennessee. I sat with Paul listening to records while we waited for Anne to arrive: side A of After the Gold Rush, over and over again. On the wall above Paul's bed hung a black-and-white image of Neil Young sitting on a bench backstage, legs crossed, an open bottle of beer beside him, eyes downcast and hidden, strumming on his big Martin guitar. His hooded brow and bisected long, dark hair made him look like Geronimo in patched, tattered jeans and an untucked oxford shirt. Neil Young. To my ears, the very name was sublimely evocative, like a line of terse, elegantly understated poetry. The exaggerated percussion and practiced sloppiness of the guitars and the barroom piano and that strange, keening, almost childlike voice made the sound seem at once ancient and otherworldly. The lights of the Old Man's car appeared in the driveway. Paul sighed and lit another cigarette. "Go on," he said. "Have a look at her." Downstairs, my mother sat in the living room with her Bible open in her hands--presumably seeking some last-minute spiritual fortification. She stood and smoothed her skirt as the door opened. The Old Man entered, clutching a pea-green suitcase, followed by a small woman in a gray coat. "I never thought I'd be darkening this doorway again," she muttered. The Old Man grunted in agreement. When she saw me standing at the bottom of the stairwell, she smiled. "Hello there," she said. "Hello," I replied. "Hello, Anne," my mother said. To my knowledge, the two women had never met face-to-face before. "What a healthy-looking boy," she said to my mother. The Old Man's forced grin looked far too painful to be worthwhile. "Paul's upstairs," my mother said. Anne slipped her coat off her shoulders and handed it to my mother. "Would you mind bringing me a drink, Dick?" Anne asked. "What'll you have?" "A rusty nail, if you can manage it." "I think we're out of Drambuie," the Old Man said. "Just a scotch on the rocks, then." "I'll take you to Paul's room," I said. Then I remembered: Anne didn't need me or anyone else to show her the way around our house. I stood by silently as she crept up the stairs. The Old Man hurried to take her coat from my mother's hands and hang it in the hall closet. "Why don't you come help me in the kitchen, Richard," my mother said. She was preparing a London broil and a broccoli casserole. The Ol