“From what I can tell, it was out of character for her to publicly confront Gloria,” Ty said, taking a big bite of pepperoni and cheese.

“She doesn’t look like she could physically do any damage,” Aldo mused.

“But you’re still worried,” Ty finished for him.

“I think he’s stirring her up,” Aldo told him. “I think, in addition to sending vaguely threatening letters to Gloria, Glenn’s writing home to his mother telling her that it’s all Gloria’s fault. He’s her son. There’s gotta be some kind of motherly bond.”

If Ty was surprised that Gloria had confided in him about the letters, he didn’t let it show. “But as long as he stays behind bars, she’s safe,” he pointed out.

“What if Mrs. Diller scrapes up his bail?”

Ty shook his head. “She’s leveraged to the point of foreclosure. She’s got nothing. Yeah, I checked on that, too,” he said before Aldo could ask. “That’s why he’s in the state prison. Couldn’t come up with the bail, and county jail was full. There’s a good chance he won’t get out of there for twelve, fifteen years.”

It wasn’t enough, and they both knew it.

“He doesn’t have some rich uncle who’s going to sweep in with the money, does he?”

“If there was a rich uncle, he shoulda showed up a long time ago.”

* * *

Aldo thought about the Diller family for the rest of the afternoon. He knocked off a little early when Jamilah informed him that overdoing it wouldn’t be tolerated. He’d wanted to argue. But she was right, and he wasn’t quite as dumb as he had been in the past.

He took the opportunity to cruise through the south side of town. Benevolence was mostly cozy, single-family homes, tidy little duplexes, and a picturesque downtown. But there was a handful of blocks where the houses were a little shabbier, the landscaping a little more overgrown, and the shadows a little darker at night.

Relying on memory, Aldo cruised down Mrs. Diller’s block. Once cozy, identical houses built on postage stamp lawns, these remains showcased peeling paint and sagging porches. Mrs. Diller’s house hadn’t fared any better than her neighbors’. The once white clapboard siding was a rotting gray. The glass was cracked on two of the front windows. An ancient window unit air conditioner chugged away, dripping steadily on sodden porch planks.

The puke-green, rusty Buick sat in the gravel driveway on nearly flat tires. Weeds sprouted everywhere. It was the home of a woman who had depended on her men for everything before being abandoned.