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Back The Heathens
Chapters (33)
  1. ALSO BY ACE ATKINS
  2. Dedication
  3. Epigraph
  4. ONE
  5. TWO
  6. THREE
  7. FOUR
  8. FIVE
  9. SIX
  10. SEVEN
  11. EIGHT
  12. NINE
  13. TEN
  14. ELEVEN
  15. TWELVE
  16. THIRTEEN
  17. FOURTEEN
  18. FIFTEEN
  19. SIXTEEN
  20. SEVENTEEN
  21. EIGHTEEN
  22. NINETEEN
  23. TWENTY
  24. TWENTY-ONE
  25. TWENTY-TWO
  26. TWENTY-THREE
  27. TWENTY-FOUR
  28. TWENTY-FIVE
  29. TWENTY-SIX
  30. TWENTY-SEVEN
  31. TWENTY-EIGHT
  32. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  33. What’s next onyour reading list?

“You talking about from that soft-bellied Chester Pratt?” Daddy said, cracking open his third beer, guzzling it straight down, a good quarter of it running down his goatee. “Now you’re talking, son.”

ELEVEN

Are you sure it’s her?” Donna Grace Webb asked. “Maybe it’s some kind of mistaken identity? That kind of thing happens more than you know it. I heard it for myself on one of those Dateline NBC shows. Some woman’s in trouble, folks think she’s dead, but she’s really drinking margaritas somewhere down in Cancun.”

“I’m real sorry,” Quinn said, standing by the worktable of DG Creations flower shop. “I know y’all were good friends.”

“So you’re sure?” she said. “I mean, real sure?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Quinn said. “The body we found was Gina Byrd. Lillie IDed Gina herself. I don’t mean to be harsh, but I promise you she’s not drinking margaritas down in Mexico.”

Donna Grace was a big woman, somewhere in her late sixties, with chubby cheeks and red hair pinned up on top of her head. As Quinn offered a few more details, she looked unsteady on her feet, gripping the side of her table covered with bunches of roses and snipped baby’s breath. When he’d come out of the rain and into the little white house, she said she was making a bouquet for a big wedding supposed to happen on the Square tomorrow, that is, if this nasty weather would clear up.

The little cottage seemed almost airless, closed up tight and smelling sweet and old at the same time, like a flower pressed between the pages of book. Donna Grace wore an oversized pink blouse over some fancy jeans with designs on the pockets, trying to look composed while she placed a fist to her forehead and mashed it tight. Tears fell down onto the table.

Quinn hated these kinds of visits about worse than anything. But it was all part of the job, calling on loved ones and friends of folks who died quick and without notice. He took the calls when he could, car wrecks to heart attacks, murders and job accidents, often if he knew the people involved, not wanting to parcel out the worst part of the job to his deputies while he kept to his desk. The least he could do is knock on the door himself and let them know what had happened while looking them in the eye.

“Someone killed her?” Donna Grace asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“The things I’m hearing,” she said. “About the body they found. Things done to it.”