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“Are you religious, Doctor?”
D.J. used his hands to dry wash his face. “I attended seminary with Wendell. We grew up together, but I never actually went into the ministry. Dropped after first semester. I wanted to serve in other ways. I went to medical school, but I didn’t give up my faith or anything. Why?”
“What’s your violin strings made out of?” Violet asked. There went giving John the lead.
“Catgut,” he muttered. “Why?”
She looked at John again, and he leaned forward. “Alibi?”
D.J. sniffed. “No point living anyway. Might as well jump.” His tone was low. Depressed. He was grieving. That’s what was happening here. John recognized the pain in his eyes and the hopelessness. “I wasn’t camping with Ray, but I asked him to be my alibi long before you came into the picture. I needed it for Dr. Crocker, to take off work without being questioned. I was in Lexington for the weekend. Apartment hunting. I leased a place. I have the proof, and you can call the apartment manager. I have receipts of places I ate. Gas receipts.”
John frowned. “Did you not want Dr. Crocker to know you were moving? Why would you hide that alibi?”
“Because I was getting the place for me and Amy.”
John frowned again. “Amy Miller?”
D.J. nodded.
Amy Miller, who had been killed earlier today in the meth lab explosion. Amy Miller, who Greg had messed with. “Dr. Lanslow, I don’t mean to offend or add pain to your grief. I do understand what it’s like to lose someone you love. But...it’s come to our knowledge—or at least what we’re gathering—that Amy Miller might have been a holler prostitute. She ‘cleaned houses’ like Atta Atwater, like all our victims except Nadine.”
D.J.’s eyes filled. “I know,” he whispered. “But we fell in love, and she wanted out. We were going to run away. Once I had everything in order. Get married. She didn’t want to do what she was doing, but...her mom died when she was ten, leaving her alone with her stepfather, and he...he abused her. She left him at sixteen and became a holler girl. It was money, food, protection. She was naive and lost—she thought it was hope. Thought it was going to be freeing since she was in charge, but she was never in charge, and by the time she realized it, she was in too deep.”
“How does Whiskey keep these girls in line? Threats? Do they all run his drugs or just Nadine? Would you be willing to testify? We could put him away for drug and sex trafficking.”
D.J. wiped bleary eyes, and his brow knit together. “Whiskey doesn’t have anything to do with the holler girls. He runs drugs. Everyone knows that. He does provide protection for them. And Nadine did sometimes prostitute to buy weed. Whiskey Girls didn’t get drugs for free.”
“What kind of protection?” John asked.
“He’s the muscle if men get rowdy or hurt them. Almost every man around knows if they hurt the girls or do something they don’t want done—they’re dead.”
Like Earl Levine and Bobby Lloyd.
“That’s why Amy did it. She needed money, but more so she wanted protection from being hurt again. She realized that was totally screwed up, but she was in and once you’re in...you’re never getting out. Not alive.”
All these victims appeared to have had abusive pasts by men. Girls like Atta, whose father and husband beat her up. Or Tillie, who had been sexually assaulted in college. D.J. was right, at the time it would appear to be a better deal for the girls. It would feel as though they had control when, really, they had none. They had exchanged one abuse for another.
Reality hit John with a one-two punch. “Is that why you needed a fake alibi for Dr. Crocker? He doesn’t just tend to the girls for Whiskey, does he? He’s far more than the holler doctor. He runs the show. Whiskey is his front. His muscle.”
D.J. frowned. “Whiskey is no one’s front. People are afraid of him, sure. He has some power, and he’s been running drugs and other criminal activities only because he’s allowed. But neither he nor Dr. Crocker run this holler, Detective Orlando.”
Violet and John shared a confused glance. “Then who does?”
D.J.’s laugh was humorless. “Mother. Mother runs this holler and has for decades.”
“Have you come to check on Mason, hon?” Mother asked as she rocked on her porch, an afghan over her lap and a steaming cup of what smelled like apple cider in her hands. “He’s asleep.”
Violet’s skin broke out in chills. She’d trusted Mother with the child’s welfare and placed him in the arms of a madame! She’d felt maternal love from her and wished she was part of her life. But had she been born into this family, she’d have been forced into the family business. According to D.J., holler girls had been run by a Boyd Mother since Mother herself was a girl. All daughters were required to prostitute, and any other girl who needed protection or covering came to Mother. Mother had said she had many surrogate daughters.
No wonder Ruby didn’t want Violet to tell her mom or Mother. No wonder Loretta ran away so young. She wanted out. Violet’s stomach had been in knots since they left Lanslow’s home.
Violet glanced at John, who stood behind her. “No, I’m here to make sure he gets as far away from you as one can possibly get. I’m here to make sure you can’t traffic another single child, girl or woman.”
Mother’s sharp blue eyes narrowed. “Excuse me, missy?”
“Don’t call me missy.” Seething words sat on the edge of her tongue, but she held them in regrettably. “You turned out your own daughter and granddaughter, who ran away to escape the same fate. And your great-granddaughter.”
Mother stood, the blanket falling to the porch floor. She was dressed in a long skirt, and her feet were tucked into thick boots. When she slammed her mug onto the table, the cider splashed out. “And look where that got Loretta. Stolen. Some man had his way with her for almost four years, controlling her, forcing her.”
