He was bothered by the young man in his leather coat and his questions. Questions about the sheriff and, more important, about America Reynosa, although he’d never once said her name. Marco couldn’t shake the idea that the whole conversation was about her and had been all along, and not about anyone or anything else.

He didn’t think the man from Austin cared about the election.

He’d heard the other deputies talking, and some folks around town. In the last couple of days, America had been seen in the company of an old man and a young girl. Probably just relatives or friends, although no one knew exactly which. Come to think of it, Danny had been seen with them, too. It wasn’t a secret, exactly; the sort of thing people might notice and comment on, maybe consider strange, but never think of asking directly about. It just wasn’t how things were done in Murfee. For a place that did such a poor job of hiding its secrets, most folks did an admirable job of keeping their mouths shut.

Now you had America being seen with two strangers, and another stranger suddenly appearing in Earlys, asking about her.

All that was strange.

Marco would never consider raising it with America, either. Honestly, he got nervous around her, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t mention it to Danny. In fact, it was the sort of thing he absolutely should tell Danny, who could then decide what to do about it.

One thing leading to another . . . leading to another . . . on and on. You never knew the start of something important—often never realized its importance at all—until it was over.

But maybe, just sometimes, you did.

THIRTY-TWO

America woke Fox Uno with a gun pointed between his eyes.

He was sleeping on the couch, Zita nearby on a pallet on the floor. The sheets were cartoon characters she had picked up, and the pillow was a big yellow thing, like a sun. Danny, too, was there—back in her bedroom—all wound up in a sleeping bag he’d been issued in the army. He had one gun, maybe two, slipped down into the sleeping bag with him. The last couple of nights he’d fought to stay awake, before finally, angrily, succumbing. He talked in his sleep, words and names she didn’t know, hands moving on their own, flying toward his face as if he were startled and about to wake from whatever dreams were troubling him. But he never did. He rose each morning confused, with circles under his eyes, unrested.

It wasn’t just Fox Uno troubling him, but he wouldn’t talk about it, and since he refused to leave her alone in her apartment at night with Fox Uno and the girl, it was a tight, uncomfortable fit for everyone.