Another snort from Marion. “In hiding. You always did have a way with the words, even when you was little.”

I drummed my knuckles on the countertop, something gritty sticking to my skin. “Izzy?” I prompted.

Marion took another drag from her cigarette. “Getting right down to business. I can respect that.” She paused, pointed at me with one nicotine-stained finger. “Don’t ask me how I know because I ain’t gonna tell you.” She swirled her cigarette through the air. “A magician never reveals her secrets.”

“I won’t ask,” I said, trying to hurry her along. My God, she loved an audience. My mama was right about that.

Marion leaned forward. “She was seeing that Matthew fellow. The one works for Jimmy Ray. Has that stupid-looking ponytail. Heard she was like a cat in heat around him.”

“Matt?” I said, momentarily struck dumb. The bartender from the strip club. The absolute asshole. The worst of all possible bad choices. Oh, Izzy, what were you thinking? “How did they even meet?”

“Got no idea,” Marion said. “Figured they crossed paths at some point, liked what they saw. Don’t know how far it had gone or nothing like that. But I have it on good authority that he wasn’t exactly telling her no.”

“She was twelve.”

Marion shrugged. “And he’s an asshole with a pecker. This shouldn’t be news to you. It’s the oldest story in the world.”

I wanted her to be wrong. I wanted to live in a world where grown men didn’t prey on twelve-year-old girls. But she was right, of course. It was nothing new. Nothing that wasn’t done every second of every day in every corner of the world. Little girls were never safe. I should know; I used to be one of them.

SIXTEEN

Originally Barren Springs had been a dry town in a dry county, the band of ragtag settlers still determined to put God first in thanks for his having saved them from starvation and ruin. Their resolve hadn’t lasted long; soon as folks figured out how rough life was around here—discovered that just because land is pretty doesn’t make it farmable—they realized liquor was vital to take the edge off, make the days bearable. But most of the drinking in Barren Springs was still done in private, as if God wouldn’t count it against you so long as you didn’t throw it in his face. Beer bought at the Piggly Wiggly and consumed by the case down by the creek or flasks of whiskey tucked under car seats for swigs on the way home from work. Other than Jimmy Ray’s strip joint, the only watering hole in Barren Springs was Cassidy’s, a tiny bar wedged between the laundromat and the questionable sub shop. It had a leg up on Jimmy Ray’s place because it served a couple of actual cocktails and smelled like dryer sheets instead of strippers. Of course, at least half the town would say those were knocks against it. I’d only been inside a handful of times, mainly with Louise, whose husband, Keith, worked the bar most nights. Cassidy’s only held about thirty people at capacity, the space long and narrow. Bar running the length of the right side, liquor bottles always shaking slightly when the dryers on the other side of the shared wall were in full spin, and a few two-top tables lining the left. Tonight, at half an hour before closing on a Tuesday, there was only one man bellied up to the bar and Keith cleaning up behind it.