He watched Carlos and Walton climb out of Walton’s car and ascend the courthouse steps, deep in conversation. Before they reached the front door, something made them stop and turn. Bo followed their gaze and saw Rosa from Tortillas standing on the sidewalk below. Apparently she’d called to them, and now she was walking quickly toward them. Bo watched her hand over an opaque plastic bag with the Fayeville Hospital logo on it. She said something to Carlos, who listened intently before offering her his hand, which she shook before returning to her still-running car. She seemed to be in a hurry.

As she pulled back out onto the road, she narrowly missed colliding with Roy Tomlins’s truck. Roy honked and swerved, and then sped off down the uneven asphalt. Watching this, Bo felt a tingling on his arm. When he glanced down to check whether he’d been stung, he could see that he’d broken into a sweat.

Roy had started drinking half an hour after he’d received word that he and Travis Brayer were persons of interest in the investigation of the murders of Edward and Jiminy Waters. Jean’s husband, Floyd Butrell, had also been mentioned, but Floyd had been dead nearly as long as Edward and Jiminy, so he didn’t have to weather the same indignities as those that were still around. Upon learning of the investigation, the postal service had placed Roy on leave, which freed him up for some serious drinking. At first, he’d done it to calm himself down, in the manner of strong men needing some strong stuff to fortify themselves in the face of life’s setbacks. Then it had become a tribute to Travis, a string of one-man toasts to a co-conspirator and dear friend. After that, it turned into a self-pitying reflex—something to do as he cursed the existence of Carlos Castaverde and Jiminy Davis. Finally, it had become routine—Roy couldn’t seem to remember a time when he hadn’t been drinking, or at least he didn’t want to. He preferred to define his life in whiskey terms from this point forward. Which is how he came to be ridiculously drunk outside the gate of Brayer Plantation, armed with a bottle of Jim Beam and a side of pork he planned to fry up for him and his old friend Travis.

The large wrought iron gates that framed the start of the plantation driveway hadn’t been closed in decades. But they were shut now, most likely in response to the crowd of journalists camped out beyond them. Roy rolled by slowly in his truck, with his window down, marveling at the sight. One sharp-eyed local newscaster with bouffant hair caught sight of him.

“That’s Roy Tomlins!” he shouted, pointing at Roy’s truck.

Cameras swung in the direction of the point and microphone-wielding people began running Roy’s way. Startled, Roy tried to slam his foot on the accelerator but hit the brake instead. Before he knew it, he was swarmed.

“Mr. Tomlins, did you and Travis Brayer murder Edward and Jiminy Waters?”

“Are you here to see Travis Brayer? Are you coordinating your defense?”

“Is it true you abused your job as a postal worker to spy on private citizens’ correspondence?”

“What is your reaction to these murder charges?”

“Are you still active in the K.S.O.?”

Roy found the gas pedal, but his path was now completely blocked.

“Outta my way!” he yelled.

The local newscaster leaning his head inside Roy’s truck winced at the whiskey smell.

“Are you intoxicated, Mr. Tomlins?” he asked.

Roy smashed the bottle of Jim Beam into the newscaster’s face. The man stumbled back, blood pouring from his nose. As the surrounding crowd reacted with gasps and shouts, Roy slammed his foot on the accelerator, clipping several cameramen who didn’t get out of the way fast enough, and roared down the road.

Roy felt his own blood pounding in his ears as he sped away, jerking and swerving with rage. How had this all happened? Why was everything suddenly going so wrong? It didn’t make any sense to him; it wasn’t supposed to be like this. This was not the way the twilight of his life was meant to unfold.

It was time to take charge. He still had some fight in him, and he wasn’t going to let some uppity spic and little cunt of a girl ruin him. He’d take care of this right now.

Willa always left her door unlocked, and no one was able to move fast enough to rectify that situation before Roy was on the front porch, bellowing curses. Jean nearly collided with Lyn in the hall as she rushed to check on the commotion.

“What’s happening?”

“Trouble,” Lyn answered.

By that point, Roy was leaning into the door, determined to push it down if it didn’t yield.

“Don’t let him in, you hear!” Jean commanded, before hurrying into Willa’s room.

Lyn didn’t have a choice. She wasn’t disobeying, but the door was already opening. She forced her face into a calm expression.

“Well hello, what can we do for you today, Mr. Tomplins?” Lyn tried in a friendly voice. “Mr. Tom-lins,” she corrected herself, willing her speech impediment away. She had no time for it now.

Instead of answering, Roy shoved her roughly to the ground. She felt her back crack as she went, and wondered if she’d ever be able to convince it to work again.

“Don’t you talk to me!” Roy was bellowing in her face, spewing whiskey fumes. “Don’t you even look at me, you goddamn bitch!”

It had been over forty years since Roy had murdered another human being, but he remembered how it felt. He remembered the energizing thrill of surrendering to impulses. He’d also been drunk then, though not alone. He and Travis and Floyd had been together. Walton and Grady and the rest had been in other cars, too far behind to catch up in time.

Roy remembered the specific excitement of forcing Edward’s car off the road, and the adrenaline rush that came with dragging a grown man somewhere he didn’t want to go. He remembered the sport of letting him try to run, and how Edward had looked stumbling frantically back toward his daughter’s shrieks. Roy remembered the feel of the gun against his shoulder as he’d aimed. He remembered that it had only taken one shot.

He remembered how Floyd had been spooked by the shot and let go of the girl, and that she hadn’t even tried to run. She’d just knelt there on the ground, sobbing beside her father’s body. Roy remembered how he had handed the gun to Travis, who’d walked over and calmly pressed its muzzle to the girl’s head. Roy remembered how she’d quieted, and closed her eyes. And he remembered the hush of the night as Travis pulled the trigger.

From where she lay crumpled on the floor, Lyn stayed perfectly still. She could hear Willa and Jean shrieking from the bedroom, and Roy crashing around.

Then there was the sound of tires screeching to a halt in the gravel, of running footsteps.

“NO!” Willa’s granddaughter screamed from the entryway. “NO, YOU WILL NOT!”

“There you are!” Roy roared.

He’d come for the girl, Lyn realized. He’d come for the second Jiminy. Lyn couldn’t let him have her. She struggled to rise.

“Don’t you fucking move!” Roy snarled, as he brought his fist down hard onto Lyn’s neck.

She felt something else crack, and caught a glimpse of Jiminy’s horrified, terrified face as she ran toward the kitchen. Roy went after her, and though Lyn was desperate to stop him, she couldn’t seem to move. Jean’s gun was leaning against the wall just inside the kitchen door, but Jiminy had already run past it. Ignoring her pain, Lyn gritted her teeth and tried again to stand. But her limbs wouldn’t cooperate—she was too battered and bruised. Gasping for air, with sweat pouring from her face, Lyn started to crawl.

She heard more crashes, and Jiminy screaming. With an epic effort, Lyn dragged herself through the kitchen doorway. She could see Jiminy, backed against the far counter, holding something out in front of her. But there was Roy, unstoppable, loping toward his prey. Lyn’s heart began beating too fast, and there was a rushing in her ears that wasn’t the sound of Roy’s yelling but rather some other thing, filling her head. It was overpowering. Lyn gave herself over to it and let it move her.