Why, then, did the sight of these other tiny towns on the highway fill her with nothing but dread? As Mayfield rocketed past diners and feed stores, Clark felt the eyes of people on the other side of their dark windows wishing her away, wishing her to tend to her own town’s secrets.

Dylan’s body had been discovered in a creek, on an unseasonably cool day, and those forces together had acted as a refrigerant, slowing the process of decay and making it difficult to determine a time of death. An autopsy was scheduled for this afternoon, which would hopefully shed more light on the matter. “But don’t get your hopes up,” the medical examiner had said. “You may as well have tucked this boy in a deep freeze.”

Meaning Dylan Whitley could have died anytime between Friday evening and Sunday night. Meaning that Clark and Mayfield were on their way to Galveston to visit KT Staler’s half brother, the man who swore on the phone with Clark yesterday that the three boys had stayed with him over the weekend.

“Can I say something?” Clark asked Mayfield.

“I should hope so. It’s a long ride.”

“I have real issues with the story KT told us about Dylan running away Sunday night.”

“Go on.”

Clark muffled a yawn before she could begin. She felt as if she had slept—if that was even the word for it—at the sheriff’s department. Upon their return from the funeral home yesterday afternoon, Clark and Mayfield had been greeted by the mayor and the sheriff and the sheriff’s boss, County Attorney Harlan Boone.

Mr. Boone was a squat, polished man, sixty but blessed with a glow of youth: full head of hair, taut skin, a nervy edge in his every word. He was partial to turquoise bolo ties, pointed cowboy boots, gleaming diesel trucks he replaced every year. He had always struck Clark as vain and vaguely useless. Her experience with him yesterday had not altered her opinion.

“The mayor and I have never had more faith in this department than we do tonight,” Mr. Boone had said. “I’ve assured my lovely wife—and I’m sure by now she’s assured every lady in town—that you will bring this case to a swift and firm conclusion.”

Boone drove his fist into his palm for emphasis. Mayor Malacek nodded a dignified assent. Clark had looked over her shoulder to be sure the county attorney wasn’t speaking to an audience of reporters that had somehow sneaked its way into the station behind her.

Now, on the road, she forced down some brackish truck stop coffee and struggled to sort her thoughts. “It’s just, I keep coming back to the text message that Joel Whitley received on Saturday. Why would Dylan send a message in which he sounds like he’d already run away but then wait to leave his buddies until over twenty-four hours later?”

“Waited to tell KT he was leaving, at least,” Mayfield said.

“You mean you don’t think Jamal ever came here with them?”