The pendulum swung the other way. They were dead, no question. The Klan had done it. The New Jersey State Police. A wounded boyfriend. A crazed murderer who roamed the countryside. No. No. Never give up hope. Congregations all over Boston prayed for Junie. Big politicians stopped by the house, because Wesley Senior was connected. John Hynes, Boston's mayor, promised his help. So did the formidable Joseph Kennedy, whose empire was said to extend into spaces so narrow not even the Scarletts of the world could wiggle in. Everyone kept clapping everyone on the back. Everyone kept insisting Junie would turn up. She would write a letter from Mexico, she would call for cash from Seattle, or, at worst, some kid would stumble over the remains in a ditch.