There wasn’t a single visible tattoo on his tanned and ropy arms. His neck likewise bore no marks save for acne scars and shave bumps along the hairline. Darren wasn’t sure Gil Thomason knew who Hitler was, let alone could explain the significance of the seminal text Mein Kampf that was in his trailer. And after fifteen minutes, Darren decided he’d wasted enough of his time on Gil and lost his appetite for dirty dealing; it was a fire you could start for a single good reason and end up turning a forest to ash. He was on his way out of the station when he was informed by one of the deputies that Marnie was asking to speak to him.

The headquarters of the Marion County Sheriff didn’t have two interrogation rooms, so Marnie had been locked in Quinn’s office this whole time, a sliver of a room overheated by a radiator with flaking paint under the window. Case files were stacked every which way, and Quinn had a bunch of leftover yard signs from his most recent campaign leaning upside down against a wall, their wooden stakes pointed in the air like church steeples. But it was a MAGA hat sitting on the edge of Quinn’s desk next to a jar of buffalo nickels that drew Darren’s attention; it was red like a siren, a warning signal. The sheriff was done with Marnie by then, but it was clear he had no intention of leaving Darren and Marnie alone in his office. He sat behind his desk, fingers linked and resting on his slight belly, watching Darren, who stood while Marnie, who’d been dragged to the station barefoot, ran her dusty toes along the flat gray carpet. Even with the heat, she was shivering as she sat in the chair across from Quinn’s desk. Neither man acknowledged her discomfort. Despite Darren’s irritation over her probable exaggerations of Leroy Page’s behavior toward her family, he was curious enough to be courteous. He crouched down to keep her from having to crane her neck to meet his eyes. Her tears had dried, but her eyes were puffy and makeup-smeared. “I’m sorry about Gil” was the first thing she said. “All that nigger this and nigger that. He just talks tough, ain’t nearly as hateful as he pretends to be. You’d see if you got to know him.”

“Well, ma’am, I usually take people at the first nigger,” Darren said. “I find it saves time that way.”

“I don’t hate Gil, I don’t.”

“Well, good for you.”