“They’re dead,” Lillie said.

“Who?” TJ said.

“The men who killed your momma,” Lillie said. “Figured y’all would want to hear that.”

“What about Chester Pratt?”

“I’m no Sunday school teacher so I’ll tell it to you straight,” Lillie said. “That good ole boy is fucked five ways from Sunday.”

TJ could only see the back of John Wesley but saw his head bow and heard him start to cry. The front door opened up and she saw big Lillie Virgil hugging her little brother, telling him everything was going to be okay. She was a friend of his momma’s.

“Is that really true?” TJ asked. More men in uniforms came up and surrounded the Land Cruiser. Back door opening and cold air rushing inside. Damn, her leg hurt like a son of a bitch, that white cloth now a dark and deep red.

“Your momma and I used to run together,” Lillie Virgil said. “Way back when. I’m sorry for what happened. I should’ve known there was a hell of a lot more going on inside that trailer.”

TJ felt herself crying now, all of it breaking apart inside her and feeling like she just might damn well choke on all that pain and finality of never seeing her mother again. Maybe she’d even forgive her for the hell she put her kids through. One day.

“Momma sure used to be beautiful,” TJ said. “Before everybody used her up.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

By mid-March, it was finally warm enough for Quinn to put the jon boat into Choctaw Lake for a little bass fishing. Brandon had joined him, holding the tackle box and a sack full of sandwiches and healthy snacks that Maggie had made with implicit instructions not to ride by the Sonic on the way home. The water had warmed up quite a bit but was still cold down deep, Quinn knowing they’d have to do a little searching to find some bass active enough and ready to bite. They motored on over to one of his favorite spots on the lake where he knew an ancient old oak had fallen years before. He explained to Brandon where it lay and how to be careful not to snag his hook on any limbs. The boy listened, holding the fishing pole with a serious expression on his face, his eyes hidden by the Tibbehah Wildcats cap about two sizes two big.

Quinn stood and cast right into the little nook where he knew some big ones liked to hide, taking a seat again, reeling in the rubber worm nice and slow, just enough to animate it, make sure the fish thought it was alive and a tasty treat.

“John Wesley’s back in school,” Brandon said.

“I heard.”

“He’s got a new family.”

“A foster family,” Quinn said. “For now.”