“She seemed to like you, Quinn,” Lillie said. “There’s something dark on that girl’s mind. And you’re gonna have to be the one to get it.”

*   *   *

“You can’t just show up like this,” goddamn Bentley Vandeven said to Fannie. “Even if the senator wanted to see you, this isn’t the place for a meet. Let’s all just sit tight, let me make some phone calls, and agree on a better location.”

Fannie Hathcock sat behind the wheel of her new Lexus LS 500 Sport, a little gift she’d given herself over the summer. Pearl white with black leather interior and chrome trim. She had the sunroof wide open on the drive down to Jackson, cracked now as she sat there with Bentley in the steakhouse parking lot, the kid trying to be cool and collected, a real fucking voice of reason.

“How’s Pastor Colson doing?” Fannie said. “Any luck getting in her pants? I heard she’s really locked that shit down. Doesn’t drink or drug anymore. Not fun at all.”

Bentley’s face drained of color. His face and front of his blue-and-white gingham shirt nearly soaked through on an unusually warm October afternoon. He didn’t wear any jewelry, only a gold watch that probably cost half as much as her goddamn Lexus. “What do you know about it?”

“I’ve known what you’re about since you brought the tip jar up to Tibbehah County for your fat-cat friends,” she said. “Remember, Bentley? I made it very clear I wasn’t Johnny Fucking Stagg and didn’t make political donations.”

“My relationship with Caddy Colson isn’t about business or politics,” he said. “And I’d appreciate you staying out of my private life.”

“Little too late for that, kid,” Fannie said, cracking the electric windows. “Be a good boy and open that glovebox. Hand me the pack of Dunhills in there. Was your daddy hoping you getting tight with Miss Caddy would lead to some good dirt on the sheriff? Sure seems like a lot of goddamn work for a man your age. Grown-ass women are a little different from that Ole Miss cooze you’re probably used to, all spray-tanned, manicured, and wide-eyed. You got to put in some real effort for a mature woman.”

Bentley seemed taken aback for a moment, opening his mouth as if he didn’t know what to say. But then he just shook his head, kneading his palm into his forehead and laughing a little. “I appreciate you driving down,” Bentley said. “There’s an Olive Garden right up the road. I’d be happy to buy you lunch and listen to any of your concerns.”

“Bentley?”

“Yes, ma’am.”