Darren sometimes wondered if the brothers’ deep differences, the divide between the two sides of the law they represented—William, the Texas Ranger, and Clayton, the former criminal defense attorney—was colored as much by matters of the heart as by a true ideological disagreement. Later in life now, Darren could see how trying to straddle the line between the two men’s belief systems—the impulse to police crimes against black life and to protect black life from police—had gotten him into all this trouble with Mack and the Malvo murder.

As for his uncles’ breakup, William was dead now, and Clayton had finally rekindled what he’d lost all those years ago. He and Naomi were living together in Austin, where he taught classes at the University of Texas School of Law. They hadn’t married yet, but Darren was sure it was coming. It was a mess of a situation that gave him a headache if he spent too much time thinking about it. He was never sure if he was supposed to be aggrieved for William or happy for Clayton. And Brotherhood or no Brotherhood, he felt for Levi King or any kid whose home life was dictated by the messy romantic lives of the adults charged with his care.

He called his mother about an hour outside of Marshall, less than ninety miles from Jefferson, the county seat of Marion County, on the cell phone he’d bought her last month. She answered right away. There was music in the background and a whip of wind. She was outdoors somewhere, radio propped on her janitorial cart, Darren pictured, as she listened to Betty Wright and the rhythm and blues of the put-upon. She was curt with him, vexed at being interrupted and checked up on by her son. “What you want?” she said without turning down the music, and soon Darren heard voices in the background and tinkling sounds too heavy for wind chimes. Beer bottles, he thought. Bell wasn’t at work. She was partying somewhere with a crew of folks. No need to punch a clock with Darren slipping her a grip of money on the regular. He cut right to it.

“Where is it?” he said.

“Where is what, boy? Told you I’m busy.”

“The gun, Mama. Where in the hell did you put that gun?”

“Hold on, let me take you off speakerphone.”

“Mama—”

“What? They not gon’ say nothing,” she said. “It’s Fisher and some of his people out to Lake Charles. They ain’t thinking about no small-town mess.”

“You’re in Louisiana? What about work?”

“I’m with my boss, so I ain’t in no kind of trouble,” she said. “I don’t know why you care so much, haven’t been around to see me no way.”

“I saw you Thursday,” he said. “I mowed your lawn.”