And horseshit. Which was odd, because the only four-legged creature in sight was a mangy dog nosing through a Hostess cherry-pie wrapper in the grass.

Darren, Sheriff Quinn, and Deputy Briggs had moved their vehicles to a spot near a row of boathouses a few yards from the shore, so the men could speak freely. Quinn was walking Darren through the boy’s last day. “The mom and the boyfriend were running errands out to Jefferson and Marshall, which, knowing Gil Thomason, could mean anything from stopping at Kroger for hair cream and toilet paper to selling credit card numbers under a bridge somewhere. Guy’s a total piece of shit. Fake IDs, credit card numbers, and drugs, of course. He’s a real jack-of-all-trades lowlife. That’s why he don’t want us inside.”

“Surprised the judge hasn’t signed off on a warrant yet.”

“I think everybody’s hoping there’s a simple answer to this deal, that the boy took off or maybe the grandmother is involved some way. There’ve been no shortage of domestic problems coming out of that household,” Quinn said, nodding toward the blue and white trailer in the distance. Standing this close to the shoreline, Darren had a wider view of Hopetown. Behind the rows of trailers was a shallow dell, green and lush, verdant to the exact degree that the trailer park was dry and desolate. There was a house or two back there. Not mobile homes, but actual houses built on foundations more stable than bricks and wheels. There was a thatched hut of some sort too, round like a domed mushroom made of grass. Darren thought again of the smell of horses and wondered what was back there, in this other Hopetown. “The kid’s had problems,” Quinn said. “Skipping school, some petty vandalism. My deputies been out here more than once.”

Darren made a face. “He’s nine.”

“And got a daddy in the pen and a mama shacking up with a criminal. Ain’t nobody gon’ say it out loud, but I will,” the sheriff said. He glanced at the squad car parked behind them, where Briggs sat with his feet out the driver’s-side door. He was texting on his phone. “But the Kings don’t necessarily inspire a lot of sympathy in these parts. Except for Rosemary. She’s a different story.”

“Her son Bill King, he’s a captain in the Brotherhood.”

“Lot of folks willing to forget that. Rosemary King is big shit in Jefferson.”

“What about Thomason? Is he ABT?”

“Wannabe,” Quinn said. “But those are the worst ones.”