Caddy shook her head and took a drag off the cigarette. “Let’s talk about anything else,” she said. “I should’ve seen that shitstorm coming from a mile away.”

*   *   *

Quinn had agreed not to talk about Brandon Taylor until the news broke. And maybe not even then. The women had spoken to some local media, some Quinn knew and some he didn’t, and headed north as quickly as they’d arrived. Tashi had apologized to him again, sorry for doubting what he said, for thinking that maybe he’d been involved in Brandon’s death. It was just an ugly lie, Quinn had said, told by an ugly man. Quinn still not able to summon any grief for E. J. Royce’s sorry ass, even if he wanted to find his killers.

The wind kicked up as he drove south on Sugar Ditch Road, the cotton fields dry and brittle in the bottomland, the sun going down in the distance, orange and black. Just as he turned onto Perfect Circle Road, the rain started, tapping light on his windshield, wind buffeting his truck as he slowed, hit the high beams, and searched for Dana Ray’s trailer. He passed the old Blue Sky convenience store, now nothing but a burned-out shell, no one bothering to clean up or rebuild. He drove, winding his way deeper into the Ditch, past the little trailers up on the rolling hills or down in the bottomland, porch lights on, some decorated for Halloween with inflatable pumpkins or black cats. One woman, Miss Eubanks of Big Momma Bail Bonds, really did it up. Music, flashing strobes, and purple lights all down her chain-link fence.

Quinn looked down at the GPS on his phone and then back in his rearview mirror, Kenny following close behind in his patrol car. He was within a quarter mile of the address as he picked up the phone and called Maggie, letting her know it wouldn’t be long. “How about dinner at El Dorado after?”

“Sounds good,” she said. “I’ll ask Boom.”

“Margaritas?”

“Twist my damn arm.”

Quinn rolled down a flat stretch of gravel, shooting down the other side of Perfect Circle Road, the loop making a sloping half oval. He spotted an older trailer with a handmade porch outside, a blue light on by the front door. He stopped his truck, Kenny pulling up beside him, his patrol car idling as he let down the window.

“Sit tight,” Quinn said.

Kenny nodded as Quinn approached the front porch, walking up a homemade plywood ramp, buckled from sun and water damage, and pounded on the door. He could hear music playing inside, Miranda Lambert threatening to burn some shit down with kerosene. Quinn knocked again, hearing some rustling inside, a shadow taking shape on the other side of the curtains. Quinn waited for the door to open as he heard the landing buckle and crack.