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certain allegations hadn’t turned up in his divorce papers among all the other charges he’d made against me. And if he had told anyone else, not a word of it had gotten back to my brothers or my parents, or I was sure that I would have heard of it.
    He listened, breaking in only to ask good questions. When I was finished, he sat back in his chair and drained the last of his bottle, then set it back on the table.
    He looked calm, authoritative, in control. He didn’t look like a man who had been eating his heart out for twelve years anymore. “We can do it,” he announced.
    “Who’s we, white man?”
    “You can’t do it by yourself. You’ve been out of touch around here too long. And besides, you’ve got a reputation. Me, I’m the law around here. I can talk to the old-timers, find stuff out. No problem.”
    He made it sound easy. Too easy. He said “I” as though he was my partner. He thought I needed him. Or his protection. He was taking over already. I might as well go home and deal with my family if I wanted this kind of grief.
    “Forget it, Johnny. I don’t need you. I don’t know what I was thinking. Police Chief in a town where the Klan adopts a highway. That sounds like someone I sure as hell don’t need.”
    He started to say something, but I was already on my way out. I was nearly to the door when I heard the wolf whistle. I turned, smiling, warmed by the thought that the locals had finally come to appreciate my charms. Then I saw who my admirer was. The years had not changed the smug grin, nor improved the mean features of Wallace Montgomery’s face. I’d gone parking with the asshole out of pure pity one Friday night in tenth grade, and he’d paid me back by informing the whole homeroom on Monday morning that I wore a padded bra.
    I whirled around, stuck out my backside and wiggled it for him, then shot him a bird over my shoulder. When I pushed open the door and left, it was to the sound of raucous laughter, this time directed at old Wallace.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     

Chapter Five
     
    When I got home and walked into the kitchen, Momma was standing at the counter fixing a tray of sandwiches. She looked up just long enough to penetrate me with the hurt in her eyes. Those baby blues were saying that it was my first day home, and already I was taking off for hours at a time, Lord knows where, doing Lord knows what. What she said was, “The boys are watching the ball game in the front room. You ought to say hello to your father. He’s been waiting for you. He was worried sick about you.”
    I couldn’t decide which message to respond to, so I said nothing. I walked on to the living-room. Six examples of Southern manhood were sprawled around the room, watching some sort of game involving a ball on the large-screen TV. All four of my brothers were accounted for, across the couches and chairs, along with a man I’d never seen before. And, of course, Daddy, tilted back in his Sears recliner, holding a beer can and looking mighty well for someone who was worried sick. All of them were staring intently at the screen. Empty beer cans and peanut shells littered the coffee table.
    When the exertions in pursuit of the spherical object were interrupted by a commercial, my father looked up at me. “Well, look who’s here. Come give me a hug round the neck, Baby Sister.”
    My brothers looked up then. “Hi, Baby Sister. Good to see you.” “Howya doin’, Baby Sis.” “Look who finally paid us a visit.” “Baby Sister, meet my good ol’ pal here, Josh Livingston.”
    I was surprised that Josh stood up. He was tall and fit and dark. He offered his hand. We shook. He was wearing a baseball cap, like most of the others.
    Walter said to Josh in his most artificial southern accent, “According to Seth, Baby Sister Laurie is here investigating