“Well, that is unusual,” said Mayfield. “I spent all weekend calling that number. Never once did it answer.”

KT’s face darkened. “We must of been on the water.”

“You’d have to have been miles out to sea for cell service not to reach you. Radio waves fly farther out there, you know.”

KT studied them, perfectly still but for the vein pulsing in his jaw.

“You should call Floyd today,” KT finally said.

“You said Dylan left on Sunday evening,” said Mayfield. “Last night.”

“He did.”

“Then why did he text his brother on Saturday morning saying he was running away from Bentley?”

That rattled the boy. After a long pause he said, “He did?”

Mayfield said quickly, “So when did you and Jamal get back to town yesterday?”

KT told them nine o’clock. He dropped Jamal at his house and was home himself by nine twenty. No, he didn’t hear from Dylan in the evening, nor this morning.

“So Dylan doesn’t have any family that could take him in. Who’s this other girl you mentioned? You’re saying she might have feelings for him enough to let him stay on her couch?”

“Not on her couch.” KT smirked. “It was just—Dylan, he’s always texting somebody, trying to hide it from Bethany, you know. Real covert. But I see it.”

“And you’ve never seen a picture of this girl? Never caught a name?” Mayfield said.

“Nah, man. Dylan can be real secret if he wants to. He want to hide something from you, you ain’t never gonna know it.”

Mayfield and Clark exchanged bored little frowns.

“I put out an APB for Dylan’s truck on Saturday afternoon,” said Mayfield. “That’s an All-Points Bulletin, son, a request for every cop from here to Atlanta to keep an eye out for a sky-blue Chevy with a Bison bumper sticker. If Dylan left out of Galveston Sunday night, someone should have seen him by now.”

KT shrugged again. He was beginning to look irritated. “That ain’t my problem.”

“You don’t seem especially concerned about finding your friend.”

“He’s a grown man, ain’t he? He got a right to his privacy.”

“He’s dead, son.”

The news hit KT like scalding water. He pushed back in the chair, stared from Mayfield to Clark and back again.

“You’re fucking with me.”

“I’m afraid not,” Clark said.

“He was discovered early this morning,” Mayfield told KT.

KT blinked. Tears had sprung up. “How?” he tried to say, but his voice cracked.

“Dylan Whitley was murdered,” Mayfield said. “Past that we ain’t at liberty to say.”

KT stared at Clark, stared through her. He opened his mouth to speak, closed it, opened it again. “But Dylan was with me all weekend.”

“Fishing?”

“Yes!”

“So why did Dylan come all the way back to Bentley last night just to get himself killed?” Mayfield said.

“Man, you’re the fucking cop!” KT shouted. Clark saw the anger return to his eyes. She saw fear as well. Fear for himself, she wondered, or for his friend? “I don’t know why the fuck he’d come back. He just kept talking about how he couldn’t handle it here no more. He said he ain’t got no future but for football and he’s sick of the way people make him like some fucking king. Ever since he told them over the summer he wanted to quit he—”