gives me a catch in my throat until I hear the names and
can breathe again, knowing it’s not any of my nieces or
nephews. Thank God, it’ll be another eight years be-
fore we have to worry about Cal behind the wheel of a
car. Dwight’s already told me that Cal’s first car’s going
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to be a big heavy clunker, an old Grand Marquis or a
Crown Victoria. He keeps saying that he wants a lot
of steel between his son and another car until he’s had
four or five years of experience. “No way am I handing
a sixteen-year-old the keys to a candy-red sports car,”
he says.
We’ll see. I remember the T-Bird I’d wheedled out of
Mother and Daddy. The exhilaration of empowerment.
Free to hang with my friends, to cruise the streets of
Cotton Grove on the weekends, or sneak off to the lake
with Portland. I guess my brothers had given them so
much grief when they first got wheels that they didn’t
realize girls would take just as many chances. As long as
we met their curfews, we were considered responsible
drivers.
Faye leaned closer and I was suddenly awash with a
feeling of deja vu as she lowered her voice and said,
“I might not ought to be telling this, but Flip said he
almost got high himself from the smell of beer in that
car when he pulled them out. He says all three could’ve
blown a ten or twelve.”
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C H A P T E R
29
Dwight Bryant
Wednesday Morning, March 8
% Wearing one of his trademark bow ties—today’s
had little American flags on a blue background—
and a starched blue shirt, Pete Taylor appeared in
Dwight’s doorway promptly at nine and held it open
for his client and a younger woman. “Major Bryant?
Detective Richards? This is Mrs. Harris and her daugh-
ter, Mrs. Hochmann.”
Dwight and Mayleen Richards immediately stood to
welcome them.
Mrs. Harris was what kind-hearted people tactfully
