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“Jem,” Tean said.
“I need to know what’s going on. These are important questions.”
“We’ll take two cars,” John-Henry said. “When we get there, I want Tean to stay in his car with the engine running. Tean, if you see someone matching DeVoy’s description leave the building, follow him. Otherwise, you don’t get out of the car for anything; if anyone approaches you—anyone that’s not us—leave and call Chief Cassidy.”
“He might be busy,” Emery said, “with a corncob up his asshole, so feel free to call anyone more useful: the fire department, a stray dog, a floating turd.”
“Ree and Jem are going inside,” John-Henry continued as though Emery hadn’t spoken, “where Jem will check to see if DeVoy is in the building. If he is, we’ll try to flush him out; Ree, you’ll cover Jem in case someone notices him. If he’s not there—”
“We wait and break in later,” Emery said. “It’s not a complicated plan, John.”
“What are you going to do?” Tean asked.
“I’ll be waiting out back,” John-Henry said, “in case DeVoy gives everyone else the slip.”
“It sounds suspiciously like loafing,” Emery said.
“My husband, everyone.” John-Henry nudged Emery toward the door. “Here we go.”
In the Jetta, Jem and Tean drove in silence. Jem tried the radio, but after scrolling through static and cowboy country and then the droning, nasally call for donations from a pastor, he turned it off again. In the light from the dash, Tean looked exhausted. He was trying to tuck in his shirt again, one hand on the wheel.
“We don’t have to do this,” Jem said, reaching over to tug the shirt free from Tean’s waistband again. “We can tell them we changed our minds. You were right, what you said back at the resort. We’ve got other people depending on us.”
Tean’s quiet was a held breath, and they drove over the rolling hills, past the cut faces of limestone and granite, the headlights slicing wedges out of the night: the dazzle of quartz when the headlight struck the gravel shoulder just right; the woven branches of the canopy; a stick-like bundle of movement that Jem guessed was a fox. Tean was trying again with the shirt.
“Do you think we should stop?” Tean asked.
“We can stop.”
“No, I mean—do you think we should? We should make these decisions together.”
“These decisions about investigating murders?” Jem asked, but his light tone fell flat. After a moment, he said, “No. No, I don’t think we should leave it. Something messed up is happening, and Missy shouldn’t have to pay the price for it. But I’m also not the responsible one.”
“I think you’re very responsible. You make the girls’ lunches every night.”
“That doesn’t carry as much weight when I find you’ve taken out all the good stuff in the morning.”
A smile rolled across Tean’s face and then was gone. “That’s just fine-tuning. They don’t need quite so many candy bars.” After a pause, he said, “I don’t want you to get hurt. I don’t want anyone to get hurt. But I also don’t want Missy’s life to be ruined. That seems like pretty bad math; all these people I care about, and I’m putting you and the girls at risk, and on the other side of the scale, it’s only one person.”
Jem reached over and tugged on that wild, bushy hair. “I think we both think we need to do this.”
Tean sighed and nodded. “Fine, but Jem, you can’t go in there. They’ve got a picture of you. They’re looking for you.”
“We talked about this. If anybody else knew what DeVoy looked like, I wouldn’t go. But we don’t have any other option. Plus, I’ve got this spiffy wiener hat.”
“Don’t you dare joke about this. This is dangerous. This is serious.”
Giving Tean’s hair another tug, Jem said, “We’ll be careful. It’s going to be fine.”
Another sigh. Another nod.
“And it looks better untucked.”
“Jem.”
“You’re not a Greaser. You’re not a Shark or a Jet. You’re not the Fonz.”
“Plenty of people wear their shirts tucked in.”
