Out of his window, he saw a family leaving the diner, a young woman in jeans, a pink T-shirt, and matching sneakers, holding the hand of a gangly boy in glasses who looked about eight years old. Mother and son.

The clacking stopped. “Brittlebush,” Summer said. “Sounds like a John Waters movie, am I right?”

Quentin forced a laugh.

“Actually, it’s a type of wildflower. The town is near the Arizona border, so it really wouldn’t be that long a drive. And it’s tiny. I don’t think it should be too hard to find out if this woman’s story checks out.”

“Good.”

“Nicola, right? Like the cough drop?”

“That’s Ricola.”

“Whatever. I’ll check it out. I’m assuming there’s no change in Renee Bloom’s condition.”

“Far as I know.” Quentin realized that he hadn’t checked since this morning. Since the shooting, he’d called the same intensive care nurse three times, and the last time, which had been this morning, she’d simply said, “Same,” and hung up on him. Quentin wasn’t making a lot of friends in Tarry Ridge.

“Listen,” Summer said. “I’ve got some news you’re going to like.”

“Yeah?”

“George Pollard has tentatively agreed to an interview.”

“Seriously?”

“Yep.”

“Wow.”

“His family still doesn’t know, so he’s asking if we can disguise his voice, not reveal his name . . . I’m fully expecting him to cancel, but I managed to pin him down.”

“When is the interview?”

“Tomorrow at five.”

“This is great,” Quentin said. “You’re great.”

“Aw shucks.” He could hear the smile in her voice.

“How did you do it?” His eyes stayed on the mother and her son. They’d reached their car now, and they were involved in conversation, the woman crouched down so she could look him in the eye. He figured she was giving him a good talking-to . . . until he saw that it was the boy doing the talking. Quentin wasn’t sure he’d ever experienced that as a child—a grown-up crouching down to listen to him.

Summer was saying, “. . . so now I’m stuck going to knitting group with George’s executive secretary.”

“You don’t know how to knit.”

“I’ve been watching how-to videos on YouTube. I think I can fake it. Oh . . . and I also overnighted you some reading material. The hotel should have it when you get back.”

“Summer?”

“Yeah?”

“Do I seem angry to you?”

“Well . . . are you?”

“No, I mean, do I seem like an angry person? Like . . . all the time?”

“Of course not.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“Why would you ask me that?”

He drew a shaky breath. “No reason.”

She started to say something more, but he didn’t let her. “I’ll talk to you later,” he said. “Let me know how everything goes.”