Once bustling, it was now little more than a sleepy tourist spot, its streets filled with antiques shops and storefronts where you could buy tickets for tours of historic colonial homes in town or for Jefferson’s famous ghost walks. You could also buy books about Jefferson’s antebellum history, the period of its heyday, before Shreveport overtook Jefferson as a center of bustling river trade; when the rail barons of the Texas and Pacific Railway Company bypassed Jefferson for nearby Marshall, the town was done for good. Darren had been here only once before, when he was twelve, to visit Clayton’s freshman-year roommate from Prairie View. Marcus Aldrich had been living in Jefferson for years then, having met and married a white woman who ran one of the two dozen bed-and-breakfasts in town. The marriage had ended, and Clayton had driven north to give his friend a hand moving out of the Dogwood Inn. Though Darren suspected he’d made the two-and-a-half-hour drive to relish an I-told-you-so and to encourage his buddy to finally do something with his PhD in history besides handing out brochures for plantation tours at the inn. Apparently, Darren’s life choices weren’t the only ones his uncle Clayton had something to say about.

Darren stepped out of his truck, which he’d parked on Polk Street. Deputy Briggs was waiting for him, his fleshy hip leaned against an antique gas street lamp wrapped in Christmas tinsel and tiny bells that tinkled lightly in the faint bayou-scented breeze. They were close enough to Caddo Lake and Louisiana on the other side to catch the peaty scent of swamp water, the musk of oyster shells, and the sweet smell of Spanish moss. It perfumed the streets of Jefferson as much as the smell of fried catfish and gator coming out of the restaurants at lunchtime.

“I’ll pull my cruiser around from behind the courthouse,” Briggs said. “You can follow me out to the highway. It’s a couple of twists and turns to get us there, but you stay close, and I’ll make sure you don’t get too turned around.”

“No need,” Darren said, smiling to make clear he appreciated all the fuss, that he meant no discourtesy. “You give me directions, I’m sure I can find it.”

“Well, you might and you might not. Hopetown’s tucked deep in the woods along Caddo Lake. I drove clear past it the first time I was out there,” Briggs said, pulling out his car keys. “’Sides, I got orders from the sheriff.” Who’d gotten his orders from Wilson, Darren knew. This was the deal he’d agreed to. He nodded his assent, then climbed back in his truck to wait for Briggs’s escort.