A sharp sound of crumpling metal made her hold the phone away from her ear. Bobby Joe liked to flatten his beer cans with one hand.

“Crushed it,” Bobby Joe said to her with manly pride.

She’d guessed right. “I hope you aren’t driving anyplace when you stumble out of there.”

“Nah. They rent rooms out back. Or so the sign says.”

Her whole body tensed. Maybe the Weston males had a genetic attraction to hot-sheet motels. Just her luck. “Better than nothing,” she snapped.

“We can sleep it off. Get back on the road by dawn.”

Of course. Tanked up on black coffee and still intoxicated. She shuddered. But what could she do? Wake up Alma and have her give Bobby Joe a talking-to? Like that would even work.

“Wh—when you coming back to Iminga, Mary Beth?”

She sighed inwardly. “I don’t know. Your mother is happy here.” Except for the unscheduled stop at the abandoned motel, that was true enough.

“Huh. Brickell blows, if you ask me.”

“Actually, I didn’t, Bobby Joe. It seems like a pretty little town. Sheila lives way outside it anyway.”

“Oh yeah. Forgot about that. Hey, is Mom listening in?”

Mary Beth began to pace the living room. “No. She’s asleep. So is Sheila.”

“Tell her I’m all right.”

Mary Beth couldn’t keep the vinegar out of her voice. “Good to know.”

“I don’t want her to worry ’bout me.”

The background noise got louder and more boisterous suddenly. It occurred to Mary Beth that there might be female entertainment at the bar.

“Parr didn’t show, did he?”

His question surprised her. “No. Why would he? Did you talk to him?”

Bobby Joe let out a whoop. There were catcalls in the background as a bass guitar thumped a beat to strip to. Then more whoops.

Gross. Mary Beth didn’t have to wonder why she didn’t even feel jealous.

“Uh, yeah.” He came back to the call. “Just now. Guess I didn’t hear him right. He musta stayed in Atlanta.”

He seemed to have lost interest in the stripper, because she heard a screen door squeak open and slam, then footsteps on a wooden walkway. The background racket softened considerably. “Okay. Now we can talk. I would’ve thought he wouldn’t let Mother go back to Brickell.”

There was one advantage to him being inebriated. She might be able to extract information from him. “Why is that?”

“Hang on. I need a smoke.”

Mary Beth waited. A lighter flicked close to the phone and then there was the sucking sound of a deep drag on a cigarette.

“You could say we, uh, left under a cloud.” He coughed, like he was waving away smoke. “The three of us.”

Not his father. She knew that much.

“Long time ago,” he added, like that was a satisfactory explanation.