No. Stop. Bethany realized, in that cold quiet moment, that if she wanted to survive this mess she was going to have to stop telling herself what kind of girl she was and start living like that bitch while she still had the chance.

Get your shit together, Tanner.

She noticed something. During the entire ride here, she had been certain that the golf bag sliding around the truck bed was going to strike her in the face. Now, however, she saw that it wasn’t a golf bag at all.

It was a black vinyl rifle case.

What had Dylan called her that one time, that rainy morning this past spring when Bethany (and her .22 bolt-action) had rounded on him in the shelter of her father’s deer stand and asked (possibly demanded) to know why her man hadn’t fucked her in weeks?

The Sharpest Shot in the West.

Bethany pulled the rifle bag toward her and spun the business end outward. She fumbled with the zipper.

JOEL

He was vomiting, though he felt only vaguely connected to the throat clenching and burning as bile fell to his feet. Such bright new floorboards down there, he noticed, so out of place in this moldy old trailer.

“Don’t you ever say Broadlock’s name again, you fucking faggot.”

Parter stood so close his spit struck Joel’s eye.

“You’re only alive out of the goodness of Mr. Boone’s heart, Whitley.” Parter jabbed a finger into Joel’s chest. “Me? I’d have killed you the minute I heard you’d found out about Mason’s arrest, but our beloved County Attorney said we should at least offer you a deal. All we’re doing here is keeping hold of the past for a little while longer, Whitley—we’re just a few folks trying to get some satisfaction out of life, alright? So here’s our offer. We take you from here, safe and sound, and we put you on the first plane back to New York. You drop this. You never come back. In return, your family is safe—your mother, that little oil slick of a boyfriend she has now, they go on living like nothing’s happened. But if you ever say a word to them, if you so much as step foot in Pettis County again, well—you’ve seen what we can do.”

Parter took a step back. Joel thought of Deputy Grissom, burned alive in his bed. He started to vomit again.

“For Christ’s sake,” Boone said. His arrogance had fallen away. He sounded near to tears. “Why’d you hit him like that?”

Hearing the quaver in Boone’s voice, the bottom fell out of Joel’s stomach. He looked from one man to the next, went very cold. This deal of Parter’s was an empty promise. He’d already seen too much, heard too much: this place—these men—they would never be safe while Joel was still alive. Joel thought of the scowl Parter had fixed on Boone a few minutes before, the disgust and the frustration. He saw the way Boone was cracking up before his eyes. The county attorney, Joel realized, was the sort of man who had to be backed into a corner before he could commit to something unsavory.