“The letters started right before you and I met,” Maggie said. “I didn’t want to tell you because I figured you’d think I was crazy as hell. Getting letters from a dead kid. Most of them were kind and sweet, talking about how much he loved me.”

“From Brandon Taylor?”

Maggie nodded and swallowed. “At first,” she said. “They were definitely in his handwriting. I believed they were something lost in the mail. Like those stories about a family getting a lost letter from some GI who died in World War Two. I really treasured them. They were intimate and private. Like a special secret when we were kids.”

“How many were there?”

“Two that I know Brandon wrote,” she said. “These others, six of them, were different. Most of them were about finding his killer. Whoever wrote them kept on telling me to push you on this thing. And with everything between us, Rick and all his mess, I just couldn’t risk it. We were planning a wedding and moving in together at the farm.”

“Will you show them to me?”

Maggie nodded. “Of course,” she said. “Quinn, I’m so damn sorry. I didn’t mean to keep this from you.”

Quinn read the letter again and set it aside on his desk. “Crazy folks sure love to stir up trouble,” he said. “Cleotha hears from Jesus Christ Himself at least twice a day. Two months ago, Kenny got a call for a UFO sighting over Choctaw Lake. Turned out to be some kid flying a drone.”

“The first letters were real,” she said. “I know that much.”

Quinn nodded, really feeling for Maggie, not wanting to make her feel crazy or that she couldn’t share things with him. Looking at her right now, he was damn sure she believed whoever was playing with her mind. He reached out and grabbed her hand, holding it tight.

“This is some real sick stuff,” Quinn said. “Messing with you. How many people do you think knew about you and Brandon?”

“Every story about his disappearance and death mentions me,” she said, looking down at their hands in her lap and then looking back at Quinn. “Every website. Every Facebook page. I was one of the first people they reached out to when he was gone. You know his momma and daddy thought maybe he’d run away to be with me down in Mobile?”

“You told me,” Quinn said. “Next time you get one of these letters, bring it to me. Promise me. Where’d they send this last one?”

“To the farm.”

Quinn let go of her hand and shook his head. He walked over to the window and looked out on the jail yard at a few inmates playing basketball. In the parking lot, two trusties were washing and waxing his truck. Quinn looked back down at his watch again.

“Son of a bitch,” Quinn said. “Damn, this is dirty.”