“What they’re saying about TJ and Ladarius are a bunch of lies,” Holly said. “I saw the news. They’re trying to turn this damn family tragedy into some kind of redneck Romeo and Juliet. Miss Byrd didn’t care at all who TJ was seeing. She was always too stoned or drunk most of the time. Like a damn zombie. She didn’t know when TJ was coming and going from the trailer. You know the Byrds. You know their ways.”

“Unfortunately.”

“TJ’s not all bad,” Holly said. “She does what she does to take care of John Wesley. If she and him didn’t steal shit, they wouldn’t have anything to eat. TJ’s been keeping the lights on in that house since she was thirteen.”

“Her little brother shot at one of my deputies,” Quinn said. “Right after they broke into the old Pritchard place back in December.”

“Y’all never proved that.”

“TJ took everything they stole up to a fence in Ripley,” Quinn said. “By the time we got onto it, everything was long gone.”

“Those Pritchard boys didn’t need it,” Holly said. “One of them’s dead and the other over in Parchman.”

“That doesn’t make it free for the taking.”

“TJ may be a thief,” Holly said. “But she’s not a killer.”

Quinn nodded. The waitress refilled his cup of coffee as Holly ordered the All-Star Special. Two eggs, grits, toast, bacon, and a waffle on the side. Quinn’s phone started to buzz, a call from Lillie that he sent straight to voicemail.

“Holly,” Quinn said. “Where the hell are those kids headed?”

“I don’t know if I should say.”

“You should understand I’m the best chance of getting ’em back safe.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Quinn said. “Some folks are sure TJ did this, especially with the history between her and her momma.”

“I don’t know.”

“You have my word.”

“Your word, huh,” Holly said. “This is turning into some real Bonnie and Clyde shit out there, Sheriff. Ain’t it? That’s why I run off like I did. I didn’t want to stick around and see how the picture might end.”

*   *   *

“You said you knew this girl’s mother?” Charlie Hodge asked, he and Lillie halfway to Texarkana by now. The billboards and little roadside towns lit up in the dark night, whizzing past the windows, a little bit of rain tapping at their windshield.

“Yep,” Lillie said. “She was a friend until she went and fucked herself up.”

“How’s that?”

“Mainly by a real piece of shit named Jerry Jeff Valentine who sported a mullet and drove a black Monte Carlo SS. Black with red racing stripes.”

“Say no more,” Hodge said. “That the kids’ daddy?”