Dark Places by Gillian Flynn

show: He was a three-legged, runt coyote and she was a tired, limping bunny. It was not magnificent.
    “How’s my farm girl?” he said. There was an understanding between them that her running the farm by herself was something of a joke. And, she supposed, it was at this point.
    “Oh, hanging in there,” she said. Debby and Michelle retreated to their bedroom. Libby snorted from the couch. The last time Len had come all the way to the house, they’d had an auction a few weeks later—the Days peeking out through the windows as their neighbors underpaid and underpaid some more for the very equipment she needed to run a working farm. Michelle and Debby had squirmed, seeing some of their schoolmates, the Boyler girls, tagging along with their folks as if it were a picnic, skipping around the farm.
Why can’t we go outside?
they whined, twisting themselves into begging-angry outlines, watching those Boyler girls taking turns on their tire swing—might as well have sold them that, too. Patty had just kept saying:
Those aren’t our friends out there
. People who sent her Christmas cards were running their hands over her drills and disc rippers, all those curvy, twisty shapes, grudgingly offering half what anything was worth. Vern Evelee took the planter he once seemed to resent so much, actually driving the auctioneer down from the starting price.Merciless. She ran into Vern a week later at the feed store. The back of his neck went pink as he turned away from her. She’d followed him and made his
for-shame
noise right in his ear.
    “Well, it sure smells good in here,” Len said, almost resentfully. “Smells like someone had a good breakfast.”
    “Pancakes.”
    She nodded.
Please don’t make me ask you why you’re here. Please, just once, say why you came
.
    “Mind if I sit down?” he said, wedging himself on the sofa next to Libby, his arms rigid. “Which one’s this?” he said assessing her. Len had met her girls at least a dozen times, but he could never figure out who was who, or even hazard a name. One time he called Michelle “Susan.”
    “That’s Libby.”
    “She’s got red hair like her mom.”
    Yes, she did. Patty couldn’t bring herself to say the nicety out loud. She was feeling sicker the longer Len delayed, her unease building into dread. The back of her sweater was moist now.
    “The red come from Irish? You all Irish?”
    “German. My maiden name was Krause.”
    “Oh, funny. Because Krause means curly-haired, not red-haired. You all don’t have curly hair, really. Wavy maybe. I’m German too.”
    They had had this conversation before, it always went one of two ways. The other way, Len would say that it was funny, her maiden name being Krause, like the farm equipment company, and it was too bad she wasn’t related, huh. Either version made her tense.
    “So,” she finally gave in. “Is there something wrong?”
    Len seemed disappointed she was bringing a point to the conversation. He frowned at her as if he found her rude.
    “Well, now that you mention it, yes. I’m afraid something’s very wrong. I wanted to come out to tell you in person. Do you want to do this somewhere private?” He nodded at Libby, widening his eyes. “You want to go to the bedroom or something?” Len had a paunch. It was perfectly round under his belt, like the start of a pregnancy. She did not want to go into the bedroom with him.
    “Libby, would you go see what your sisters are doing? I need to talk to Mr. Werner.” Libby sighed and slid off the couch, slowly: feet,then legs, then butt, then back, as if she were made of glue. She hit the floor, rolled over elaborately a few times, crawled a bit, then finally got to her feet and slumped down the hall.
    Patty and Len looked at each other, and then he tucked his bottom lip under and nodded.
    “They’re going to foreclose.”
    Patty’s stomach clenched. She would not sit down in front of this man. She would not cry. “What can we