Darren got an image of himself at nine, teeth indeed bucked halfway to Dallas, no matter the tall tale his mother told about nursing his dental health, about having been a part of his upbringing in any meaningful way. When Darren was nine years old, the men who were raising him—his uncles William and Clayton Mathews—were his whole world.

Wilson nodded and let out a soft belch. He chased the chalky antacids with a swig of Coke, which was most certainly not on his wife’s list of approved tonics. “Well, the thing is, the kid’s connected. That’s why the feds want a careful hand in this.”

“Connected?”

“The kid’s people are Brotherhood.”

Darren made a face. He didn’t even realize it till Wilson said, “Not the kid’s fault.”

“Of course not,” Darren said quickly. He wasn’t proud of the millisecond in which his disgust of the Aryan Brotherhood of Texas got out past his sympathies for the kid. But neither could he shake a lingering antipathy—or apathy, really—for the woes of a Brotherhood family. He covered it by pointing out the obvious mistake that had been made. “The feds asked for me?”

“They asked for a Ranger from the task force. I volunteered you.”

“Thank you,” Darren said. It came out more like a question than a statement, and he hoped he didn’t sound like he was making light of the situation or like he didn’t appreciate being called to serve. Still, the timing wasn’t right. There was no way around that. He couldn’t go back into the field now. Not when things with Lisa were stable. And not when the situation with his mother had slipped out of his control. He hadn’t talked to her since he’d discovered the gun was not in or underneath her trailer. She had not returned any of his calls. He’d spent a good five hours Sunday with his butt parked on the steps of her trailer, waiting for her to come home and explain herself; he had even driven by the Starfish Resort Cabins and RV Hookup looking for her Chevette or any sign of his mother in her fraying blue smock, swaying drunkenly as she walked between the cabins.

Darren shifted in his seat, his long legs as stiff as kindling.