As the sun set, wrapping Jefferson in coral and purple and dimming to a blue haze the light in the hotel room, Darren left all the lamps off and drank in the coming dark. The bourbon melted his first set of cares like butter, but it set a yellow flame to the new shit that was knocking around in his brain, bringing other concerns to a rabid boil. He thought of Bill and Marnie’s belief that their son was still alive, their desperate need for it to be true. He thought of his hard-hearted feelings for Levi and then pictured the face in the school photo, remembered that he was just a kid. He thought of Leroy Page’s arrest, his daughter’s coldness toward Margaret Goodfellow. He thought about Rosemary and her lawyer, of Sandler Gaines’s greasy smile and dodgy manner, and he wondered again if he was right about Monica Maldonado. Was this woman really missing, and if so, why? He remembered her business card in Leroy Page’s kitchen. Page’s odd, rambling words this morning at the hospital when Darren had tried to ask the delirious man how and when he’d met the woman. Rosemary could stop this anytime she wants to, he’d said. Just like Bill King had said, I’ve already told Mama to call off next week.

Why did both men seem to believe that Rosemary held some master key that would open so many of the different locked doors around this mystery?

Next week, next week.