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disappeared.
    Reaching the double glass doors, she took a quick look back at the busy store. She was mildly surprised to see the fat man—the one who’d walked in just ahead of her, the one in the green plaid coat and the cap with the oval Peterbilt logo—still on the premises. Must be stocking up. He stood at the start of the soft drink aisle, shoulders hunched, hands in his pockets, apparently torn by an existential dilemma regarding two-liter plastic jugs of Dr Pepper: diet or regular? The only visible motion came from his jaw, as it grappled with a bountiful plug of snuff, and his eyes, which roved restlessly.

 
    Chapter Three
    â€œI didn’t kill him, but I sure as hell don’t mind the fact that he’s dead.”
    Royce Dillard put a stiff nod at the end of the sentence, as if that settled the matter, once and for all. His palms were flat on the tabletop. His spine was pressed against the back of the chair and his feet were spread wide; his legs kept up a steady vibration, causing his boot heels to tick against the concrete floor. His gray-blond hair wasn’t long but still appeared flighty and disorganized, as if it never felt the press of a comb. There was a look of apprehension in his black eyes. Those eyes were ringed with dark, the natural tattoo of the chronic insomniac. He was one of those people who blinked so rarely that you’d swear someone was making him pay per blink, and he’d been keeping careful count since the day he was born so that he wouldn’t be overcharged.
    â€œWe got that.” Sheriff Harrison stood behind him. She was motionless at this point, but seconds before she’d been making a series of slow, deliberate loops around the gray metal table and chair that hosted Dillard in the interrogation room, pausing at irregular intervals: in front of him, behind him, beside him, then in front of him again. She didn’t like interview subjects to get too comfortable. From the look of Dillard, there was no chance of that.
    It was just after seven on Saturday night. Bell would be showing up at the courthouse soon; Harrison had reached her on her cell. The sheriff sensed that she was interrupting something—she’d been able to hear, in the background, the purr of soft music, the drift and murmur of voices, the courtly clink of cutlery, indicating a restaurant, and not the sort that got by with plastic utensils and paper plates—but Bell didn’t seem to mind and promised she’d be there in half an hour. That was twenty minutes ago.
    â€œGood.” Dillard barely opened his thin-lipped mouth to speak. A quantity of suppressed energy appeared to be buzzing and fluttering inside him, power held back only by an effort of will. He was a medium-sized man, but his jangling nervousness made him appear bigger, more volatile, a potential threat. “Just so we’re clear.”
    â€œOh, we’re clear all right,” Harrison snapped. She was in motion again, ambling behind him and then around toward the front of the table. Her arms were crossed. She was a petite, visibly fit woman with short brown hair and a pink birthmark that splashed across one side of her face, lapping down onto her neck. The big hat cast a shadow over her face, and people meeting her for the first time sometimes mistook the birthmark for part of that shadow. When they realized their mistake—the shadow stayed, even when she removed her hat—they were embarrassed, even though no words had been spoken to indicate the error. Pam Harrison was used to it by now, used to people’s reactions to the left side of her face. She’d been dealing with it ever since she was old enough to understand how profoundly a superficial anomaly could change one’s destiny.
    â€œSo why am I still here?” Dillard said.
    â€œBecause you lied to us. Twice.” Harrison stopped her march, then started up again an instant later. She traveled behind him, then