He nodded at the notebook in Deputy Browder’s hand.

Investigator Mayfield raised an eyebrow to Joel. “Is that right?”

“Look for yourself. The last digits. He’s got them backward.”

Browder handed Mayfield the pad. He didn’t bother to suppress a scowl. “We’re gonna have fun with you in town, ain’t we?”

Mayfield cleared his throat. He set his glass on a table coaster, produced a pen and corrected the number himself. The investigator stood and smiled. Joel and his family rose after him. In the commotion, Joel noticed, Mayfield slid Browder’s notebook into his own pocket.

“We’ll get in touch with this Staler boy in the afternoon, see if we can’t get Dylan on the horn for a few minutes. He might still be there, you know, at the coast. Or if he’s gotten it in mind to run off, maybe he’s told his friends where he’s headed. Either way, y’all let us know if you hear from him in the meantime, yes?” Mayfield extended his hand to Paulette, to Darren. “I’ll bet you a nickel he’ll be walking through that door the moment we’re walking out.”

—run Joel run Joel RUN—

“Don’t you want to see his room?” Joel said.

“No sense disturbing the boy’s privacy till there’s a call to.” Mayfield ambled his way to the house’s little parquet foyer. “Just by the by—when was it you said that you got in last night?”

Joel didn’t hesitate. “Eleven o’clock. Maybe a minute past.”

“Is that right?”

“Of course it is. I heard that car pull in right after the night news.” Paulette’s arms were barred across her chest, her chin jutted out, every inch of her suddenly ready for a fight.

The investigator said nothing more. He glanced between mother and son before letting himself out the door. The smell of Browder’s cheap body spray choked the air when he was gone.

“That department always will have it out for you,” Paulette told Joel with a scowl. He noticed she wouldn’t meet his eye.

CLARK

When Clark arrived at Rummy’s eight hours later, the only people crouched over the bar were the professional drinkers. She recognized George Mason—father to Garrett, the defensive safety—an oily man who’d once been a big deal at the power plant at the dam before the county had shut it down. Mr. Mason was flanked by a pair of former employees, all three men whiskered and humbled, clad in grease-stained jeans and fraying plaid shirts, drinking slowly with a gruff, masculine boredom. A woman with frizzled hair was making eyes with one of them. All three were making eyes at her.

Clark retreated to a booth in the back before any of the men could register her as fresh meat.

It had been an odd day, had followed an odd night. She thought again of Jason Ovelle, her old classmate she’d arrested at the field last night. She’d hoped to question him at the station after the game but Jason had been gone by the time she’d arrived.