He’d imagined her tongue on a few other secret places of his in the days since, making him worry that he was turning into a dirty old man-before he was even in his prime.

“Jason.”

“Yup?”

“You cleaned up enough. I’m locking up. I know you don’t want to go home.”

“Sure I do. You think I want to work all the time?” he said under his breath, “But you’ll keep half my pay still, right?”

“Yup. Got it hidden. Earning interest.” This was old, touchy territory for the boy. “I’m just saying. You find trouble at home, you know where I live.”

“I’m not leaving my mom.”

That voice. So low. So defeated. So old. “I never said you should leave your mom. I said you know where I live. Just like your mom knows there’s a shelter where she’ll be safe, and they’d help her start over.”

“She won’t go.”

“That’s not on you.”

“Right.”

Griff told himself to shut up, because he knew better than to push. He’d pushed before. He had four kids working for him-all troublemakers, school flunk-outs, all of them tattooed and pierced and familiar with the holding cell at the sheriff’s office. You don’t push kids who’ve already given up. And when a kid had already given up by age eleven, you tiptoed, because you might only have one chance to earn some trust-and that’s if you were lucky.

Griff wasn’t a good tiptoer. He wore a size-l4 shoe.

Once Jason finally headed out, Griff thoughtfully packed up a pint-size cold tote and carried it to his car in the alley. Main Street was shutting down.

Shops closed up early on a weekday, but the pharmacy was still open and Deb’s Diner still had a cluster of pickups in front. Although there was no sign of the fire trucks now, all the lights were blazing at the sheriff’s office.

He noticed the lights, but didn’t linger, just turned left two blocks later on Magnolia. The street was an antebellum postcard; the houses were huge and old, built of cool cinder block, most with sweeping verandas and swings hung with chains.