Greg had parlayed his limited role in the double homicide this October in Lark—namely, those four minutes on camera discussing hate crimes—into a spot on a task force that was documenting a rise in hate crimes since the election. He echoed the same fear as Lieutenant Wilson, that no one knew where the Justice Department’s priorities would lie on the other side of Trump’s swearing-in. And before the current administration turned off the lights on its way out, the feds wanted all of this written down. They wanted history to remember. Greg had been traveling through counties in East Texas, from Houston up to Dallas, documenting every church and mosque defacing, every black doll hung from a tree as a joke, and every real black body found the same way. There’d been two in Texas this winter, one out near Waco and the other up in Bowie County, where Bill King was currently incarcerated. Greg, it turned out, had even been to Hopetown. He’d met and talked to Mr. Page, to Margaret Goodfellow and her extended family. There were reports that intimidation and threats had been coming from the newer residents out there, the folks in the trailer park. And then, of course, there’d been the explicit vandalism. “The n-word,” Darren said, nodding.

“Among other things.”

“Page said something about a church.”

“Not a church like you or I understand it, but a house of worship, yes,” Greg said. “It’s a hut, a round hutch-looking thing Margaret Goodfellow’s people built.”

“They’re Indian, Caddos.”

Greg nodded. “Some of the only ones left in this state. The rest settled in Oklahoma, forced out along with every other tribe under the sun.”

There were rumors of Caddo in the Mathews bloodline, but Darren had never met a Caddo Indian until today and knew nothing about the tribe except what his seventh-grade Texas History teacher had seen fit to share, which was not much.

“What happened to the church?” he asked.

“Couple kids tried to burn it down. Levi King was a little shit.”

Darren sighed from the weight of trying to mitigate. “He’s nine.”

“And then he’s nineteen,” Greg said. He sank onto the edge of the suite’s living-room sofa. “Right now, he’s just playing out what he sees around him on a level he can handle; he takes out his anger at the world on anybody different, repeats what he hears in his house. But ten years from now, I guarantee that boy’s gon’ be jumping into the Brotherhood just like his daddy, and then he won’t be just spray-painting the old man’s house; he’ll be killing Leroy Page.”

“Sounds like some ISIS shit,” Darren said. “Mix an unhappy home life with few legal economic opportunities, shake and stir, then let ferment—”

“And in a few years, you got a homegrown terrorist.”