Mayfield and Lopez stood. Mayfield pushed a legal pad toward Jamal, a pen riding atop the paper. “Just write the truth, son. Make it easier.”

Jamal made no move to pick up the pen. Good. The two older men left the room with somber faces, letting the door latch behind them, but by the time they made it to the anteroom Mayfield had grown affable, almost giddy. He ignored Clark.

“Just a few more hours,” the investigator said. “It’s simple, really. We were looking at this the wrong way all along. We thought Dylan had a girl on the side but it was Bethany who had a boy. She and Jamal were carrying on. Dylan got wind of it, tried to stop them, the end. Jamal’s gonna crack by sundown.”

“If he doesn’t get a lawyer soon,” said Boone.

“He won’t ask for a lawyer—he’s too afraid of looking guilty,” Lopez said. “He’s got balls, though. He might just lock down on us.”

Clark wasn’t certain she agreed with Joel: closed-minded as she knew Bentley was, she struggled to believe that the simple fact Dylan Whitley was queer would motivate the sheriff’s department to drop an investigation of his murder in exactly the same way it had abandoned its investigation into Joel’s very public shaming.

But there were more factors at play here than simply Jamal’s race (though that, she knew, was no small consideration). She had no doubt that Investigator Mayfield had scuttled the investigation into her brother’s disappearance and he seemed more than ready to ruin another.

“I got more good news today, actually,” Mayfield said. “Old Deputy Grissom’s recovered enough to start talking again.”

An odd look crossed Lopez’s face.

“Is that right?” Mr. Boone said. “I thought the doctors told us that with the horse breaking his spine—”

“They did. But he is.” Mayfield smiled. “His day nurse called saying she couldn’t believe her ears.”

A piercing chime rang through the speakers when Jamal adjusted the handcuff on his wrist. The men flinched. An idea struck Clark.

“Can I speak to Jamal?” she said, hoping to God she sounded nervous, harmless, female. “Maybe he’d open up to someone a little closer to his own age.”

Mr. Boone frowned. “Does she even have interviewing experience?” he asked Lopez.

But Mayfield grinned to her, smug as a cat. “I don’t see it could do any harm.”

Clark thanked him. She’d see about that.

She stepped into the interview room a few minutes later with two bottles of water, a handful of mints stuffed in her pocket, a gentle smile. Jamal hardly looked at her. The room was thick with silence. No air-conditioning. No vents. Clark sat across from him, her back to the one-way glass.

“If nothing else you should have a drink.”

Jamal stared at the blank pad of paper in front of him.

She retrieved a mint and took her time pulling the candy from its plastic.

“Do you love Bethany, Jamal?”

He stared at the table. “It weren’t like that.”