Looked like something an animal did. A fox. A wolf. A dang grizzly bear. But Jenny is saying a person did that. The vet called the injuries “inconsistent with an animal attack.” The way one of the ears was cut. The way the neck was ringed with a rope-burn.

The way the teeth were all removed.

An act of torture, not rage. An act by human hands.

People are fucked, Atlanta thinks. She knows there are kids out there who do stuff like this—hell, back in junior high down South she knew a kid named Buck (who people called Bobo for reasons unknown) who would shoot frogs with a bow and arrow, then freeze them, then blow them up with firecrackers. What happened to Sailor was like a master class in that. Advanced Sociopathy for the Wannabe Human Monster.

Preying on the weak.

Eventually she crawls her way back to standing, makes sure there’s no vomit curds hanging out along the edges of her mouth, then returns to Jenny, who sits in the kitchen, staring down at the closed folder. Again she snaps out of the reverie to ask Atlanta, “Are you—”

“I’m fine. I’ll take it. The job. I’ll find out who did this to your dog.”

“To Sailor.”

Atlanta nods, takes the folder. “I’ll find out who did this to Sailor.”

Outside in the driveway, between the pine-green Range Rover and the steel-gray Lexus, she sees a familiar mouth-too-small-for-his-teeth face. Chomp-Chomp. Steven. Standing there in a ratty black-and-red Slayer T-shirt and jeans spattered with . . . something. Motor oil, maybe.

He’s got a Yamaha four-wheeler parked at the base of the driveway.

“Hey,” he says, giving her a game little wave.

“Don’t come near me,” she says, putting the back of her hand against her mouth. “I probably got really bad barf breath.”

“I know.”

“What do you mean, you know?”

“Jen called. Told me you were kinda . . . I dunno. Sick.”

“I’m fine now.” She moves past him.

“Okay. Wait. I can give you a ride.”

Atlanta turns. Cocks her hip and squints. “On that thing?” She points to the quad.

“I won’t drive fast.”

“You can drive fast, I don’t care if you drive fast.” A sudden spike of defensiveness and she’s not sure why. “You don’t . . . live around here, right?”

He shrugs. “Up the block.”

“You’re rich,” she says. It’s almost a condemnation, but she doesn’t mean it that way.

“I dunno.”

“No, you do know. You are. You’re a richie-rich.” She looks him up and down. “But you dress like you’re poor.”

“I do?”

“Kinda, yeah.”

“Sorry.”

She smacks her lips, tastes the pukey cottonmouth film on her tongue. “No skin off my knuckles. Hey, what do you know about the dog? The . . . dead one.”

“I dunno. He was cute.”

“She. Sailor was a she.”

“Oh.”

“Where’d they find the body?”

“They didn’t find it.”