A silence. “I’m not sure what to tell you.” Wesley held up his hands and said pointedly, “While you’re here, can I ask you if there’s been any progress with the fire?”

“You mean at First Baptist?” Clark rose to go. “Electrical miswiring in the steeple, last I heard.”

“Funny. That cross had been burning fine for twenty years.”

Clark thought of Mayfield, wondered how many details had been left out of how many files. She shrugged to Wesley and headed for the door.

“So Joel Whitley was at your house on Sunday night?” she said before stepping into the hall.

“He was.”

“And what were you up to Friday?”

Wesley blinked at her before turning his attention to his desk. He sighed.

“I went home to get out of the storm. And grade papers. If you’ll excuse me, Officer—they laid off all the teacher’s aides to buy the boys new uniforms and I’m already a week behind.”

JOEL

A gang of boys in blue leather Perlin High jackets were sprawled across a corner of the Egg House, looking eager to take offense. No one sat near them. The other diners ate all huddled together, relative strangers sharing tables like they were back in school themselves, all eating their sandwiches and sipping their iced tea as if there were nothing at all unusual about leaving half of a restaurant abandoned.

Joel found Kimbra Lott in a booth, seated near the back between Dashandre, the lone boy from the cheer squad (“We’ve had more of that the last few years”) and a girl with a lip piercing and bright black nails. Seated across from them were two boys, one a portly red-faced ginger and the other a handsome black kid, both of them footballers Joel recognized but couldn’t name.

Kimbra, Dashandre and April were all three cramped around Kimbra’s phone, struggling to hold a smile for a selfie. When Kimbra lowered the phone, they looked dissatisfied with the results.

“If I might make a suggestion,” Joel said gently, and the five of them flinched. “Your natural light is actually that way.”

“Boy, we ain’t trying to be a supermodel like you.” Dashandre scowled, though Joel noticed the way he shot a look across the table, like he was hoping to make the players smile.

But the boys were too distracted introducing themselves, the portly ginger rising to shake Joel’s hand with both of his. “Mr. Whitley, good to finally meet you. Whiskey Brazos, starting center. Your brother was a brother to us.”

The other player leaned around Whiskey to say, “Tyrone Baskin. Defensive captain. Call me T-Bay.”

Joel was more than a little taken aback by this courtesy—he’d long since assumed every boy in town found him contemptuous. He said something about Dylan having nothing but respect for all of them.

The girl with the black nails toyed with her ketchup. When Whiskey introduced her as his girlfriend, April, she said, “The hell dragged you back here from New York?”

“I’ve asked myself that question a lot. Do y’all mind if I speak to Kimbra?”