Bell let out a tiny, bark-like laugh. “What a good question, Darren. Why is your wife just now getting to know me?” she said, using a tone that Lisa was too drunk to realize was openly mocking the way her words came out, individually wrapped, consonants and vowels sharply defined, every sound neatly in its place, unlike the slushy speech that poured out of Bell’s mouth. She gave her son a little smile as she waited for him to explain himself to his wife. And when she was met with nothing but raw silence, she reached for the wine bottle on the other side of the table and poured the last thimbleful before rolling her grenade onto the elegantly dressed table, saying, apropos of nothing, what a shame it was that the San Jacinto County Sheriff’s Department had never found the little .38 that killed Ronnie Malvo—the reason Mack still wasn’t cleared in that homicide—that the thing could be anywhere, but surely someone knew where it was. Why, it would only take a phone call to Mr. Frank Vaughn to solve the crime. She looked at Darren, making sure he understood she knew the name of the San Jacinto County district attorney, as she snapped her linen napkin across the lap of her Lee jeans. Darren gave her a shake of his head, a flaccid warning. He hadn’t told anyone that his mother had found the suspected murder weapon on the Mathews property in Camilla, that she had it in her possession—that she had him by the balls.

“What?” Lisa said, pressing her finger against chocolate crumbs on her plate and licking them off. She had a tiny stain on her silk blouse—a drop of cherry juice from the Black Forest cake. She was glowing still, and Darren felt protective of her and the peace that had settled over their marriage. His mother would destroy it if he let her. It wasn’t enough to threaten his career as a Texas Ranger; Bell Callis wanted his marriage hanging by a string too.

He hadn’t slept that night.

But he’d gotten up the next morning and done it all over again.

Morning, Mama, you need anything? Just thinking about you.

For weeks and weeks, he hadn’t stopped thinking about her—which was all she really wanted, he told himself. The threat could be contained. He suspected the .38 lay somewhere inside the four-hundred-and-seventy-five-square-foot trailer she called home, and of course it had occurred to him to storm in one day and simply snatch it from her. But his mother had the speed and temperament of a feral cat. Any sudden moves, and she would attack. She’d make him pay for robbing her of the new authority she held. He knew her too well. He told himself he had it all under control, a lie that put him to bed at night. Until it didn’t.