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I thumb my phone, paging through the pictures I’d taken of the Boggs file. Everything is a horrific mess. Aside from the obvious trash, there are holes in the walls, and the one piece of stuffed furniture—a couch—looks like it had been slashed open.

“Whoever broke in was looking for something,” I observe. I’m a journalist, I don’t want to do a deep dive on a rumored family treasure—especially when it’s at the disposal of someone clearly living hand to mouth. But I can’t deny that something isn’t right here.

“And it wasn’t drugs, because those were lying right out on the coffee table,” Bristal says, reaching over my shoulder to point out the very two bags I’d just stashed away. “Do you think heroin goes bad?”

“It can’t go bad, it’s always bad,” I tell her. “And don’t even think about doing some at-home experiments to test your hypothesis.”

“Not my style,” she says, whipping out her vape pen, which I immediately confiscate.

“You can’t smoke in here,” I tell her.

“Is it okay if I menstruate, though, because . . .”

“Oh my God, okay,” I say, shaking my head. “Someone broke into Randall Boggs’s trailer looking for something, but it wasn’t drugs. They beat him up, but he wouldn’t talk.”

“Or he did, and they got what they wanted, shot him, and left.”

“But what could Randall Boggs have?” I ask, sliding past pictures, each more depressing than the last. In the bathroom, the toilet is backed up, and a layer of filth rests in the bathtub. The bedroom consists of a bare mattress, exposed coils breaking through.

“The cops did put some effort in,” Bristal tells me. “They thought the place had been tossed, but Boggs’s parole officer said things always looked that way—right down to the holes in the walls. What tipped them off was the couch being slashed.”

“But nothing was inside?”

“Some mice and a handful of change,” she says. “Forty-seven cents, if I remember correctly. Like I said, though, there was just too much going on for Foxglove to get whipped up about it. Boggs was an eyesore on the community as it was, and Henley had its hands full with the tornado, the flood, and all the dead dogs.”

“Henley never searched for his murderer, but the citizens made up for it by chipping in for a killer headstone,” I say.

“Good opening line,” Bristal says. “Except this episode is mine.”

“Right,” I say. And I have to admit, she’s done a fantastic job researching. She even got her hands on a police file. Pushing the crime off as a drug deal gone bad—and letting the blame fall on unnamed nonlocals—solved a big problem during a time when problems was all the town had.

“So what do you think happened?” I ask her.

“I think the old man ran his mouth off a little too much about this family treasure, and somebody took him at his word,” Bristal says. “When nothing turned up, he caught some lead for his lies.”

“Or, there was something, and they took it,” I chime in.

“Same ending for Randall,” she says. “Can I call this episode ‘Just Another Old Dead White Guy’?”

“No,” I say. “Try harder.”

“Well, there is this,” she says. “Along with rambling about family treasure, Cousin Larry says Randall also claimed that he had ‘an Indian princess’ in his family.”

“Native American,” I correct her.

“I’m directly quoting,” she tells me. “And he didn’t use those words.”

“I bet he didn’t,” I say under my breath. “If I had a penny for every white person that claims they’ve got Native American blood . . .”

“It would help you out with these,” Bristal says, holding up one of my scholarship applications that had littered the bed before she arrived. “But you’re super white.”

“So white,” I agree.

“What do you need scholarships for anyway?” Bristal asks, brow furrowing as she fans the stack of pages. “Aren’t you country-club rich?”

“Looks can be deceiving,” I tell her, refusing to say more and holding out my hand for the papers.

“Not in my case,” she says, tossing them at me. “One glance at where I live sums it all up.” Bristal hops off the bed, going to my balcony door and looking out over the back lawn. “Is your mom in a cult or something?”