“Two things.” Frost held up two fingers. “First, someone’s paying a lot of money for a painting done by a teenager. I’m no specialist, but I can guess that work is overpriced—even for Savannah. We need to find out who’s buying her work. And second, Sydney doesn’t have a car.” Frost sat back with a satisfied grin.

“And that’s important why?”

“If homegirl didn’t have a car, how’d she get her art to the gallery?”

“Okay, two things.” Charlie started the car. “First, don’t ever say homegirl again, especially when referring to our victim. And second, where’s a good place for me to buy your genius brain lunch?”

The kid still had a lot to learn, but he was right. This trip finally gave them the leads they needed, and for the first time since leaving the Marines, Charlie was beginning to see the future he longed for.

NINE

“ANY MORE BOXES and you’ll have more art than food.”

Lane looked at the small room she used to store food items at the back of the Way Station Café. At the moment, Ms. Byrdie was right. Most of the boxes stacked against the wall belonged to her sister, Meagan.

“A few more weeks and it’ll all be gone.” Lane signed for the delivery of more auction items and sighed. “I hope.”

“Do you want me to help you move this one?” Ms. Byrdie gave an appraising look at the tall, thin box.

“Ms. Lane, I can get that for you.”

This evening two regulars were visiting the café. Dottie and Harley Jones. A couple with personalities as unforgettable as their appearances. Tonight, the bottled blonde wore glittery blue eye shadow that matched her blouse, shorts, and nail polish on her toes. In contrast to all Dottie’s femininity, her husband, Harley, was the opposite. His long black hair interspersed with gray was pulled back into a ponytail. Black shirt, black pants, motorcycle boots. It was the same wardrobe every time Lane saw him. The only color he wore came in the form of tiny beads in a rainbow of colors strung together on a shoelace tied around his neck. A gift from a tribe in northern Sudan that Harley received while serving there on a missionary trip.

“It’s not too heavy.” Lane slid-pushed the box into the dining area and settled it against the wall behind the sofa.

“Momma, do I have to eat these green beans?”

Lane swung her gaze over her shoulder to Noah, who was sitting at the counter pushing his food around with his fork. “Yes.”

“How ’bout if I eat these green beans can I play with my Sarcosuchus for”—he tilted his head, thinking—“for fifteen minutes?” Noah held up his hand, palm flat, fingers splayed.