Typical, Thistle says in my head. You’ll lie to save your own skin, but not to give anyone else any peace.

‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘I think I know what happened to your dad. By tonight, I’ll be sure.’

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 43

I have a ring but no hands. I have many voices but no mouth. What am I?

After Hope is gone, I search the pick-up.

I find several thousand dollars in cash. A gun, which I don’t touch. A small padded envelope with an address written on it. Shannon’s handwriting. No name. The envelope is empty, but about the size you’d choose for a USB stick. I’m thinking that’s Fred’s address.

Too far away to check out right now. I have a lot to do before my rendezvous with the wigmaker—AKA Sleeping Beauty, AKA the Crawdad Man.

I drive to a strip mall, find a public bathroom and wash the blood off my face. Shannon’s blood and mine, swirling together down the stainless-steel drain. The mirror is scratched to shit, but I can more or less make out the damage from the crash. A black eye, a broken nose, a split lip. Not a bad disguise, all up. But if I don’t straighten my nose, I won’t be able to breathe through it when it heals.

I pinch the bridge and wrench it sideways. The sparks shoot up my nostrils like coke, making my eyes water. Then I stagger out of the bathroom.

The wigmaker knows what I look like. She followed me home after I visited the college, and dumped a body in my backyard. The busted-up face will help, but I’ll need a haircut, too.

The strip mall has a twenty-four-hour drug store. I spend some of Luxford’s cash on a pair of scissors, a pack of disposable razors, some shaving cream and condoms. The young woman behind the counter serves me without looking up from her phone, the blue glow of the screen highlighting the powder on her cheeks.

I raid a charity donation bin for some clean clothes. They’re better quality than you’d think. In Texas, people throw things away not because they’re ruined, but because they shouldn’t have bought them in the first place. The problem tends to be a lack of closet space.

I find a white shirt and a Blues Brothers-style dark suit. No belt, no tie, but the clothes look like they’ll fit well enough that it doesn’t matter. I take them back to the bathroom and start cutting my hair.

Going on the run is easy for me. This is how I used to live—off the grid. I can’t imagine a spoiled rich kid like Shannon Luxford stealing second-hand clothes and shaving his head with a disposable razor in a public bathroom. I wonder what his plan was. How long would Fred have protected him?