Steve Quinn, sheriff of Marion County, turned to see Darren for the first time. He was in his late thirties, young for his position, with dark hair and white skin that was pockmarked by acne scars. Still, he was handsome, solid-looking. Standing next to a squad car parked in front of the trailer, he gave Darren a good, long once-over, voiced no objection to what he saw, and said, “Ranger Mathews is here to help us find your son.”

“My son,” Marnie said, making it clear. “You talk to his grandmother yet?”

“Again, ma’am, every protocol I got says we got to start here, got to rule out any trouble at home, even the possibility that your son may have run away, that he might be hiding out at a friend’s house right—”

“I know exactly where he is,” Marnie said. “This is Rosemary’s doing.”

“Well, if I could take a look at his room, ma’am, I could rule out—”

“What, and give this SOB a chance to snoop through my shit?” Gil said. “I don’t give a shit ’bout the star on his chest, not letting a nigger in my house.”

Sheriff Quinn sighed with an expression that looked exasperated and vaguely embarrassed. Darren felt a jolt of rage; it made his heart race, made the tips of his fingers tingle. He wanted to slap somebody, Gil Thomason, for one, but also his lieutenant for making him drive two-hundred-plus miles to be insulted to his face. He willed his brain to cool, tried to remember that this was about a nine-year-old kid, tried, as ever, to be the better man. He sighed from the weight of it. He lifted his Stetson from his head and knelt before Marnie King sitting on the steps to her trailer. She smelled of baby powder and cigarettes, her breath fermented and soured by whatever she’d been drinking before the cops showed up. “Ma’am,” he said. Gil tried to step between them, prepared to protect Marnie from the strange black man, pressing his knees damn near in Darren’s face. The Ranger shook his head sharply and said, “You gon’ need to back up by about two feet, son.” That son, cousin to boy, set Gil off.

“Nigger, I will—”

“What?” Darren said, hand on his Colt before Gil could make a move.

Gil backed up, but only by a few inches, and Sheriff Quinn said, “Now, now, let’s don’t have that.” It was unclear if he was talking to Gil or Darren.

To Marnie, Darren spoke with a kindness that did not hide his distaste for her life choices, any one of which could account for the disappearance of her child. “How long has he been gone?” He searched for something in her eyes, which were a muddy green, the same swampy color as the water on Caddo Lake.