Royce leaned against the grocery cart, a light wind rippling all the plastic bags. He rubbed the white whiskers on his chin, smelling of booze and body odor. His fetid breath like an old ashtray. “I guess we’ll have to agree to disagree,” Royce said. “I recall your uncle covering for your ass one too many times.”

“I never denied my uncle looked out for me,” Quinn said. “And kept me out of a lot of trouble. But to say I had some kind of run-in with Brandon Taylor? I barely knew the kid.”

“Funny how the mind works,” Royce said. “It’s etched in my memory right clear.”

“You son of a bitch.”

“Don’t you take that tone with me, Sheriff,” Royce said, grinning. “Those New York women sure took a shine to this old man, took a seat at my knee like I was their papaw, wanting to know things ole Hamp kept off the books. This is just a set of alternative facts, son.”

Quinn wanted very much to grab the man’s skinny neck and wring the hell out of it. But Quinn knew knocking some sense into E. J. Royce in the Piggly Wiggly parking lot wouldn’t look good to a lot of people. Even though the old man deserved it. You couldn’t knock good sense into a stupid man.

“I don’t want to take sides in this matter,” Royce said, holding up the palms of his hands. “I don’t want to get involved in some kind of personal pissin’ match between you and your wife. I seen pictures of her when we were looking for that Taylor kid. You know, she sent him some pictures of her in a baby blue bikini down at Panama City Beach. Goddamn. Hard to erase something like that from my mind. Boys that age can do some crazy things with their hormones and peckers going crazier than a divining rod.”

Royce popped a cigarette into his mouth and lit it with a match. He coughed and coughed, using the cart to steady himself, smiling through the smoke. E. J. Royce had been waiting for years for this. Ever since Quinn and Lillie learned he’d thrown in with a psychopath named Chains LeDoux and the Born Losers to lynch a man in the seventies, Royce had wanted to turn things on Quinn. Quinn just studied the old man’s face like you’d watch an animal at the zoo.

“Someone paying you, Royce?” Quinn said. “That’s a lot of groceries.”

“I get my monthly check,” he said. “Just what are you trying to say?”

“You never had an original idea in your life,” Quinn said. “Trying to tie me into Brandon Taylor’s death didn’t come from you. It’s too creative for your warped mind.”