Clark turned the truck. “And who did they tell about it?”

CLARK

Clark estimated she had maybe five minutes before word got around that she’d arrived at the school.

She spotted Garrett Mason seated in the back of a classroom, dressed in his football jersey. She opened the door, ignoring frigid Mrs. Sparrows. “I need you for a moment, Mr. Mason.”

He was in the hallway a moment later, looking stunned and sullen.

“July fourteenth. The marina. Were you buying or selling, Garrett?”

Garrett turned to Joel, standing just behind Clark. “The fuck happened to him?”

“That doesn’t matter, Garrett. You and KT Staler and Jason Ovelle were all arrested that night. It may not have gotten around but we keep records, son. We can go to court with them.”

“I was at home that night. With my girl, Jasmine. Watching fucking Netflix. Just ask her. That fat cop’s full of shit.”

“Which cop would that be?” Clark smiled.

Garrett realized his mistake. He rubbed his hand and said nothing more.

“That’s a nasty bruise,” she said, looking down at his knuckles.

“I dropped a weight on them.”

“Starsha Clark. Joel Whitley,” called a voice behind them. “This is a blast from the past.”

Shit. It was Coach Parter, ambling up the festooned hallway as proud and lazy as a bull at a county fair. He’d certainly found them fast.

“It’s Officer Clark,” she told Parter. “And this is police business.”

“And Lord knows Mr. Mason has had plenty of business with the police.” Stepping around her, Parter draped a big arm over Garrett’s wide shoulders. “But surely this can wait until after the game tonight, Officer?”

Clark was ready to fight but Joel shot her a quick look: Drop it.

“Just one question, Garrett,” Joel said as the boy started toward the classroom. “What exactly are the Bright Lands?”

Garrett scowled. Parter narrowed his eyes.

“The what?” the coach said, a cool warning in his lazy drawl. They didn’t bother asking again.

JOEL

KT’s house seemed to blacken in the late morning sun. Haggard Mrs. Staler took an age to open the front door. “I don’t allow nobody in this house,” the woman said, twice, before Joel produced a pair of twenties and a small light came into her eye.

“Sorry, sir.” The woman gestured to her wild hair, the dried spit on her chin. As if it explained everything she said, “Oxycodone the only way I sleep these days.”

They found KT in a small bedroom on the second floor, seated atop his bedcovers, an ancient laptop unfolded in his lap.

“Kyler Thomas,” Clark said gently, noticing the vivid bruise on his face. “May we come inside?”

The glow of the computer screen was the only light in the room. Heavy curtains covered the windows. The floor was buried under unwashed clothes, bags of chips.

They came to stand at the edge of the bed.

“That’s an ugly bruise,” Joel said. Under the purple and brown spread across his cheeks, KT was still strikingly handsome, more so than Joel remembered from the game—all cheekbones and full lips and soft lashes—yet the sly light Joel had seen in the boy’s eyes on Friday night had gone out.