Free The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold

spread Fluffernutter on wheat bread. He made three. One for himself, one for my
     mother, and one for his four-year-old son.
    “Did you put away your game?” my father asked Buckley, wondering why he persisted in avoiding the topic with the one person
     who approached it head-on.
    “What’s wrong with Mommy?” Buckley asked. Together they watched my mother, who was staring into the dry basin of the sink.
    “How would you like to go to the zoo this week?” my father asked. He hated himself for it. Hated the bribe and the tease—the
     deceit. But how could he tell his son that, somewhere, his big sister might lie in pieces?
    But Buckley heard the word
zoo
and all that it meant—which to him was largely
Monkeys!
—and he began on the rippling path to forgetting for one more day. The shadow of years was not as big on his small body. He
     knew I was away, but when people left they always came back.
    When Len Fenerman had gone door to door in the neighborhood he had found nothing remarkable at George Harvey’s. Mr. Harvey
     was a single man who, it was said, had meant to move in with his wife. She had died sometime before this. He built dollhouses
     for specialty stores and kept to himself. That was all anyone knew. Though friendships had not exactly blossomed around him,
     the sympathy of the neighborhood had always been with him. Each split-level contained a narrative. To Len Fenerman especially,
     George Harvey’s seemed a compelling one.
    No, Harvey said, he didn’t know the Salmons well. Had seen the children. Everyone knew who had children and who didn’t, he
     noted, his head hanging down and to the left a bit. “You can see the toys in the yard. The houses are always more lively,”
     he noted, his voice halting.
    “I understand you had a conversation with Mr. Salmon recently,” Len said on his second trip to the dark green house.
    “Yes, is there something wrong?” Mr. Harvey asked. He squinted at Len but then had to pause. “Let me get my glasses,” he said.
     “I was doing some close work on a Second Empire.”
    “Second Empire?” Len asked.
    “Now that my Christmas orders are done, I can experiment,” Mr. Harvey said. Len followed him into the back, where a dining
     table was pushed against a wall. Dozens of small lengths of what looked like miniature wainscoting were lined up on top of
     it.
    A little strange,
Fenerman thought,
but it doesn’t make the man a murderer.
    Mr. Harvey got his glasses and immediately opened up. “Yes, Mr. Salmon was on one of his walks and he helped me build the
     bridal tent.”
    “The bridal tent?”
    “Each year it’s something I do for Leah,” he said. “My wife. I’m a widower.”
    Len felt he was intruding on this man’s private rituals. “So I understand,” he said.
    “I feel terrible about what happened to that girl,” Mr. Harvey said. “I tried to express that to Mr. Salmon. But I know from
     experience that nothing makes sense at a time like this.”
    “So you erect this tent every year?” Len Fenerman asked. This was something he could get confirmation on from neighbors.
    “In the past, I’ve done it inside, but I tried to do it outside this year. We were married in the winter. Until the snow picked
     up, I thought it would work.”
    “Where inside?”
    “The basement. I can show you if you want. I have all of Leah’s things down there still.”
    But Len did not go further.
    “I’ve intruded enough,” he said. “I just wanted to sweep the neighborhood a second time.”
    “How’s your investigation coming?” Mr. Harvey asked. “Are you finding anything?”
    Len never liked questions like this, though he supposed they were the right of the people whose lives he was invading.
    “Sometimes I think clues find their way in good time,” he said. “If they want to be found, that is.” It was cryptic, sort of
     a Confucius-says answer, but it worked on almost every civilian.
    “Have you talked to the Ellis boy?” Mr. Harvey