The man shook his head and turned, walking fast back toward the center of the mall to the water fountains and glass elevator she’d passed on the way in. Tashi grabbed her purse and recorder and left her empty cup, following Arthur Kelm through the few people who still came to malls, walking and window-shopping for shit no one needs. Cart vendors tried to sell her bootleg fragrances, cheap sunglasses, and 3-D family portraits etched in glass. Kelm turned toward a staircase heading up to the parking lot and she pursued, the air smelling of the Auntie Anne’s pretzels at the corner, free samples wafting right in front of her face.

“Mr. Kelm,” she said, yelling up the steps. “I believe Hubie Phillips might know what really happened. I know he was Brandon’s friend.”

Kelm quit walking. He didn’t turn, just stood there on the landing, holding the handrail, staring up at the daylight as he bowed his head. Tashi took the steps two by two and got within earshot. “Can you please just relay a message?” she said. “We only want to know about Sheriff Beckett. We need to know more about his investigation. Everything has been destroyed. We are starting from the very beginning. November 1997. Sir?”

The older man turned to her, out of breath, face drained of color. He looked down at a cell phone in his hand and then back at Tashi. “OK,” he said. “Just don’t lie to me. You lie to me once and I’m done.”

“Mr. Phillips?” Tashi asked.

The old man nodded. “I sure loved that boy.”

*   *   *

Work didn’t stop in Tibbehah County, not for Wes Taggart or Brandon Taylor, and that afternoon Quinn had been tipped Pookie Williams was spotted up in Blackjack milling about the new Dollar General, shoving candy bars and beef jerky into his pant pockets. He radioed into dispatch he was headed into the store, but as soon as he was through the door, the clerk, a chubby, balding dude named Buddy Smallwood, leaned against the register and pointed to the far back corner. Smallwood had a toothpick hanging from the side of his mouth and somehow looked curious and bored at the same time.

The store seemed empty except for some loud music playing down the cereal aisle. A big Bluetooth boom box perched above a Lucky Charms display blasted a Kane Brown song Quinn had heard all summer. “Used to Love You Sober.”

Quinn reached down for his mic and radioed in that Williams was inside the store.

Cleotha radioed back, asking if Tibbehah 1 needed backup.

“No, ma’am,” Quinn said, turning down the radio and walking down the far wall filled with refrigerators and freezers.

“What’s that shit you listening to?” Cleotha said, radioing back.

“Keep this channel clear, please.”