TJ closed her eyes and glanced through the window and into the trailer. Ladarius was sitting up with John Wesley, his arm around her little brother while they watched television, trying to keep the kid’s mind occupied. Everything felt so normal and nice that she wanted to tear her guts out. Her mother was dead. Momma was dead. And people were still walking around, laughing, and watching television.

“What in the world do I tell John Wesley?”

“Maybe don’t tell him a thing,” Holly said.

“What?” TJ said. “What are you talking about?”

“We could run,” Holly said. “We could run far the hell away from here. And never come back.”

“What about your family and all your friends?”

“You’re the only family that matters,” Holly said. “Rest of ’em can go straight to hell.”

“I don’t know,” TJ said. “My head’s so damn fucked up right now.”

“Grab what what’s important and let’s get out of Tibbehah County before first light.”

EIGHT

Lillie had been up half the night, burning up the phone lines with Quinn back in Tibbehah County. Gina was dead, there was little to suggest otherwise, and Quinn needed a primer on Gina Byrd 101. Lillie did her best to help, although it had been years since they’d been close. She laid out all the past boyfriends, acquaintances, the druggies and the crooks, the lowlifes and respectable citizens of Tibbehah County that Gina would have, or might have, known. Happy Hour crew at the Southern Star. Miss Donna Grace at the flower store where Gina worked part time. Maybe some friends from that new church that put on the big revival in the football stadium. Wasn’t that preacher Ben Quick back in town?

But from everything Lillie was hearing, she’d be looking right at her daughter, TJ. Quinn seemed to have doubts, but given Lillie’s experience with the kid, she knew that girl had been a rough customer since she spit the pacifier out of her crib. What Quinn was telling her about the girl seeing goddamn Ladarius McCade and her mother wanting to stick her into a holy roller private school sounded like plenty motive to her.

“Sorry to hear about your friend,” Florencia, Lillie’s housekeeper, said.

Lillie thanked her as the stout Guatemalan woman cooked breakfast, humming to herself as she worked. Florencia had been working for her ever since she and Rose moved to Memphis and into a century-old bungalow in Cooper-Young. The bungalow was big and roomy, needing some work but still holding a lot of that classic Craftsman style with ornate windows and tapered columns. A soft rain fell out on the street and the kitchen smelled like bacon and pancakes.

“Very sad.”

“That’s okay, Florencia.”

“How she die?”

“We don’t know.”

“Was she sick?”

“In a way,” Lillie said. “She led a certain kind of life.”

“She like to drink?”