“Was that vintage Christmas-themed pornography?” Emery asked.

  The minivan pulled ahead. It had a YOUR STICK-FIGURE FAMILY WAS DELICIOUS sticker on the back, and it showed a dinosaur eating stick-figures, of course.

  “I’ve never seen Mrs. Claus depicted with crotchless panties before,” Emery said in what sounded like a thoughtful tone.

  John-Henry decided to turn on some music.

  They made their way north and east, the city bleeding out around them as they headed toward the older part of Wahredua. This section had been built years ago to serve the old MP line, and, as travel shifted away from trains, it had decayed into a never-quite-renovated mixture of commercial and light industrial. Traffic thinned. The buildings crowded together on narrow lots, tall enough to cast deep shadows, the old frame structures sagging under the weight of all those years. A Pepsi Max bottle rolled under the Mustang and popped when one of the tires went over it. The sound was like a gunshot.

  John-Henry turned off Emmylou Harris. “I’m sorry about that.”

  “Hm?”

  “Back there, at the Piggly-Wiggly.”

  Emery was looking at his phone. “What?”

  “And at home, I guess. The other day.”

  Lowering the phone, Emery seemed to take John-Henry in. “What are you talking about?”

  “I know I’ve been...off.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “So, I’m sorry. For, you know, losing it. A little bit.”

  It was easier to focus on turning into the strip mall than look at Emery’s face.

  “John, you’ve been through a tremendous amount of upheaval in the last few days. You were arrested and charged with a terrible crime. You discovered someone has framed you and, somehow, managed to outmaneuver your father and your other allies in local government. You stumbled onto a shooting last night. You’re exhausted, and your world has been turned upside down, and you still managed to make Colt pancakes this morning and get him to smile about that ridiculous game you both play. I’m not sure what you consider ‘losing it a little bit,’ but from what I see, you’re holding things together better than anyone has a right to expect.”

  John-Henry eased the Mustang into a parking stall. He stared out at the stuccoed strip mall: the Foot Locker retail outlet (closed), Masouda’s Missouri Mafrum, and a U-Haul dealership housed in what appeared to have been, at one time, a garden center. Masouda’s had a wall of windows where tasseled curtains hung. A neon sign glowed OPEN.

  “Right. That’s kind of you.” He swallowed. “Thank you.”

  “I’m not being kind—”

  “But the last few days, that’s not how the chief of police should act. It’s not how your husband should act.”

  It’s not, he thought—and the thought swam in a blizzard of other thoughts, like he was shaking a snow globe—how John-Henry Somerset was supposed to act.

  “John, what in the world—”

  “Nothing.” He opened the door and got out. “I don’t know. Never mind.”

  He thought Emery might have said more, but he shut the door first.

  By the time Emery got out of the car, John-Henry was already walking into the restaurant. A mezuzah was affixed to the jamb, which wasn’t something he saw often in this part of the world, and a wall of damp heat steamed against him. Condensation beaded on the inside of the glass, and as he watched, a too heavy drop gave in to gravity and streaked down the window. The smells of hot oil, cumin, coriander, and the bright acidity of tomatoes filled the air. Inside, the dining room was small—two booths with laminate tops chipped at the corners, a counter, and a battered door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. An illuminated sign above the counter displayed a handful of dining options, and a chalkboard menu announced the day’s sides: chershi and mseyer, whatever those were. A green-and-silver Wroxall Wildcats banner nestled among plastic-covered photos on the wall, and an unobtrusive sign announced that concealed carry was permitted in the restaurant. Behind the counter, a curtain wall allowed only a glimpse of the kitchen’s stainless steel and white tile. A bell rang overhead, and a moment later, a woman stepped behind the counter.

  She was short, stocky, with graying brown hair and dark eyes. If the heat bothered her, it hadn’t kept her from wearing a Wahredua High sweatshirt and jeans. She assessed him for a moment and then, as John-Henry waited for Emery, wrapped a napkin around a set of plasticware and placed it in a tub.

  The bell rang again as Emery stepped inside, and John-Henry approached the counter. The woman looked up as she continued to wrap the plasticware sets.

  “Hi,” he said with a smile. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’ve got kind of a strange question.” He produced his phone, pulled up a photo of Vermilya that Auggie had sent him, and displayed it. “This man was in here yesterday, and I was wondering if you recognize him.”

  She didn’t look at the phone. Her eyes came up to John-Henry’s face, and she asked, “Do you have a warrant?”

  “Why would he—” Emery began.

  But John-Henry made a small motion with one hand, and Emery cut off. He studied the woman and said, “You recognize me.”

  “It’s a small town.”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t think we’ve met.”

  This time, she smiled—a small, dry expression that was gone as soon as it came. “It’s not that small.”

  “Why don’t we start over? You already know me, but I’d like to introduce myself: I’m John-Henry Somerset.”

  “And he’s your husband. And I’m Masouda. And you’re the chief of police.”

  The words felt like bait, but John-Henry wasn’t sure what kind. His whole life, he’d been good at reading people, at easing through the shifting currents of social interactions. He thought about that smile, the fleeting one, and he went for wry. “Suspended, actually. But I get the feeling you know that.”

  “Which is why I asked for a warrant.”

  “He doesn’t need a warrant,” Emery said. “He’s not requiring you to turn over evidence or testify. He’s asking questions. As a private citizen.”

  She made a considering noise. When she finished wrapping the next set of plasticware, she glanced at Emery, and then her gaze slid to John-Henry again.

  And then John-Henry felt it—the tug, the flow, everything in him shifting as he caught the direction of the current and oriented himself. “I need help,” he said. “Actually, I’m desperate. I’m hoping you can help me.”

  “Sit.”

  Without waiting for a reply, she stepped into the kitchen, and she called out something John-Henry couldn’t make out, the words distorted by the curtain wall.

  “Maybe she’s getting her concealed carry,” Emery said.

  “Be nice.”

  John-Henry sat, and Emery slid into the booth next to him. They’d barely gotten settled when Masouda returned. She was carrying two plates heaped with couscous and…balls. At first, John-Henry took them for meatballs because of the thick, red sauce covering them, but when she got closer, he could see that the shape wasn’t quite right, and the smell of cumin and coriander was even stronger. She set the food in front of them, brought two bottles of Mexican Coke back from the cooler, and drew a bottle opener from her apron. The Cokes hissed as she popped the caps, and in the warm, humid air, vapor drifted above the cold bottles.

  “Eat.”

  “What is it?” Emery asked.

  John-Henry picked up a fork and used the side to cut open one of the balls. Ground meat, like he’d expected. But it was sandwiched between slices of creamy potato. He made sure to get a little of everything—meat, potatoes, couscous, tomato sauce. The flavors exploded in his mouth, savory and rich, acidic and smoky. He made a noise that, to judge by Emery’s expression, might not have been appropriate and went for a second bite. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was—couldn’t remember, in fact, when he’d eaten. Before jail? That seemed impossible, but since then, all he remembered was coffee.

  “This is a public restaurant,” Emery said as he forked up his first bite. “Could you try not to sound like you’re in a bordello—” Through a mouthful of food, he said, “Jesus Christ, that’s amazing.”

  Masouda’s tiny smile came and went again. “Mafrum.”

  “Why have we not eaten this before?” Emery went for more of the mafrum. “When did you open this restaurant? And what kind of advertising have you done?”

  “A few months ago. And not much.” The brown of her eyes was smooth and deep. “You looked like you needed to eat.”

  John-Henry managed to pull himself back from the food long enough to wipe his mouth. “It’s delicious. Thank you.”

  “Eat,” Masouda said with a laugh. “I’ll talk, and then you can ask your police questions after you’ve finished.”

  “You’ve seen that man? The one from the photo?”

  Masouda nodded. “He was in here yesterday. But I think you knew that.”

  “You remember him?” Emery asked.

  “It’s so hard. I have so many customers.”

  To John-Henry’s disbelief, a tiny, Emery Hazard smile curled the corner of his mouth.

  “I asked you about a warrant because I want to know if I’m breaking the law by telling you this.”

  “The information isn’t privileged.” Emery paused, his fork poised above the plate. “Why would it be illegal?”

  “I didn’t say it was. Is it?”

  “Of course not—”

  “Ree,” John-Henry said. He set his fork down—ignoring his stomach’s outraged grumble—and took the Coke. He traced his thumb down the side of the glass, gathering the condensation and leaving a clear line down the bottle. “You’re not breaking the law. And I’m not planning anything illegal, so you’re not going to be an accomplice, even unknowingly.”

  “That’s what someone would say,” Masouda said, “if they were going to break the law.”

  “I suppose it is.” John-Henry took a swallow of Coke. “And I’m not sure it helps if I say that I’m not acting as a police officer, just to be clear, and you’re under no obligation to answer my questions. But it’s a standard part of a criminal defense to investigate witnesses. Any good defense team would want to know as much as they could before a trial.”

  “To figure out if a witness is lying, in the first place,” Emery said. “And, even if they’re telling the truth, to look for evidence of bias, to determine how credible they might appear to the judge and jurors, to shake loose details or inconsistencies, and, of course, to uncover new evidence. The last thing anyone wants in a trial is a surprise.”

  Masouda brushed a hand down the front of her apron, straightening it.

  “But,” John-Henry said, “that’s what somebody would say if they were going to break the law.”

  “Chief Somerset—”

  “John-Henry, please. I’m suspended, and I’m not here as the chief of police.”

  She shrugged. “It seems like it would be hard to keep your personal investigation separate from your official role. Besides, I imagine most defense attorneys employ an independent investigator. I have a hard time believing they send their clients out in search of witnesses.”

  Emery’s voice grew dry. “We’re an unusual case.”

  “I can’t prove to you that I’m not doing anything illegal,” John-Henry said. “And I can’t force you to tell me what you know. And I’d be grateful if you could help me. I don’t know what to say except that I didn’t do what they say I did. Someone is trying to frame me. Someone wants to hurt my family. And I don’t know how to prove I’m innocent except try to run down every lead I possibly can. If you can’t help me, I’ll respect your decision. I appreciate the food, and we’ll pay for it, of course. We’ll leave and stop bothering you.”

  In the silence that followed, faint music filtered in from the kitchen—it sounded like pop, but in a language John-Henry didn’t recognize.

  Without a word, Masouda collected their plates and carried them back to the kitchen.

  John-Henry waited until her steps had faded to rest his head in his hand.

  Emery’s hand found his back, rubbed against the tightness between his shoulders. “It’s ok. We’ll check the U-Haul dealership; they’ll have cameras all over the place. Maybe they got Vermilya on tape—”

  “And what, Ree? We already know what kind of car he drives. He walks in. He walks out. What are we going to see?”

  Emery flattened the napkin against the chipped laminate. “I don’t know.”

  You asshole, John-Henry thought. You stupid asshole. “I’m sorry.”

  “No, you’re right—”

  “I’m not right. It’s a good idea. We’ll ask—”

  The tread of Masouda’s kitchen shoes made John-Henry glance over his shoulder. She was carrying a laptop under one arm as she came around the counter, and when she met John-Henry’s gaze, her eyebrows went up. She sat, opened the laptop, and angled the screen to show them. A video was already cued up, and it only took a moment for John-Henry to understand what he was seeing: footage from a security camera that looked down on the restaurant’s dining room. He shot a look up, spotted the camera, and returned his attention to the video. Masouda began to play it.

  “No audio. It’s an old system; it was already installed.”

  John-Henry barely registered the words because on the screen, the man who called himself Jace Vermilya strode into view. The picture on the screen was grainy, but it was unmistakably him. It felt unreal, watching the confident, controlled movements of a man whom, later that day, John-Henry would find bleeding out under a meth trailer. Vermilya was big and muscular, and the way he moved suggested he knew how to carry himself. He approached the counter, said something to Masouda, and took out his wallet.

  “He was very polite. He asked if he could leave a tip.”

  Emery opened his mouth like he had something to say about that, but before he could speak, another man came on screen. This one, John-Henry recognized immediately—Eric Brey was a state representative for a town called Auburn, and a few months before, he’d been a suspect in a double murder. Brey was still a free man, but that had more to do with a good team of lawyers and knowing when to keep his mouth shut than anything else. On camera, Brey moved up behind Vermilya. The two men exchanged words, and Vermilya’s response—even though John-Henry couldn’t hear the words—had a kind of contained anger that made John-Henry straighten in his seat.

  Masouda was already shaking her head when he looked up. “I didn’t hear what he said; I was making change. But the other man looked like he might be sick.”

  Even from the high angle of the security camera, John-Henry could tell Brey didn’t look his best. The state rep went to sit in a booth, his movements jerky, his body taut. Vermilya finished his transaction with Masouda and joined Brey at the booth. Brey said something, but Vermilya cut him off and began to speak, bending over the table, a finger drilling into the laminate to emphasize his words.

  “Doesn’t exactly look like a naïve innocent or a victim of coercion, does he?” Emery murmured.

  If anything, John-Henry thought, Vermilya looked like he was the one doing the coercing. One of the things they’d learned about Brey while investigating months ago was that, among other things, Brey liked to tie women up and hurt them. There was a sexual component to it that went beyond kink and play. That thought flickered at the back of John-Henry’s mind now as he watched Brey shrink into the booth, making himself smaller and smaller as Vermilya tore his hide off. The men quieted when Masouda brought Vermilya’s food, but the conversation picked up again almost immediately. Twice, Brey tried to interject, and both times, Vermilya slapped him back down—not literally, but whatever he said made Brey curl his shoulders and drop his eyes. Abruptly, Vermilya made a dismissing gesture, and Brey slunk out of the booth.

  “Why meet here?” Emery asked. “Why not anywhere else—an empty stretch of road, for heaven’s sake? For that matter, why meet at all?”

  “I don’t suppose you heard anything when you brought the food?” John-Henry asked.

  Masouda shook her head. “I stayed in the kitchen after I took them their food. I kept thinking he was going to do something. I kept thinking I should tell them to leave.”

  Do something, John-Henry thought. Like hurt Brey. Maybe kill him.

  “Can you send us a copy of this?” Emery asked. “And make a second copy for yourself.”

  Masouda raised her eyebrows again.

  “I imagine at some point, law enforcement is going to ask for this. It’d be nice to know that you have a backup in case it gets ‘lost’.”

  Frown lines deepened on Masouda’s forehead, but she nodded.

  When Emery followed Masouda to the counter to pay, John-Henry rubbed his head and tried to think. As his body went to work digesting the food, exhaustion swamped him; he’d burned through his final reserves, and now it felt like all he could do to keep his head off the table. He tried to make sense of what he’d seen: Vermilya and Brey, the pantomimed argument, Brey’s fear. They had already known that Brey and Vermilya were each individually connected to the Cottonmouth Club. Now, they had something linking them together. Like the woman from the meth lab, John-Henry thought. She’d been at the Cottonmouth Club too—Auggie and Jem had both seen her. And they had a link between Vermilya and her as well, now. Three people with ties to the Cottonmouth Club. One was dead, and one was seriously injured. That meant they needed to talk to Eric Brey.

  Lost in his thoughts, John-Henry didn’t catch the timbre of Emery’s voice until alarm bells started going off. As he dragged his mind back to the present, he realized two things: Emery was talking on the phone, and angry red slashes marked his cheekbones.

  “We’ll be right there,” Emery said and disconnected.

  “What happened? What’s wrong?”

  “Colt.” Emery stormed toward the door. “Vandalism, destruction of school property, and trespass.”