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“She really cares,” I say. “She cares a lot.”

“She cares too much,” David says, looking at me pointedly over his glasses. “Erin gives everybody the benefit of the doubt, then takes their problems onto her own shoulders.”

“That’s what happened with Denise?” I ask.

“I think so, and I’m not alone in it,” David says. “I know people can’t be blamed for how they’re raised, but this girl—”

He breaks off, looking at Bristal. “You’re a Jamison, right?”

“Not pregnant,” she says automatically, garnering a smile from him.

“It was a Jamison that palled around with her,” David says, and I make a swift note with my pen to follow up on that.

“Denise wasn’t easy to get along with, I’m guessing?”

“That’s one way to put it,” David says. “But it was more like she didn’t belong than she couldn’t get along, know what I mean?”

“Maybe,” I say dubiously.

“I don’t know where she came from, exactly,” David goes on. “But it was obvious nothing good had ever happened to the girl in her whole life. Erin told me that Denise flat out asked her how many times a week she was expected to give Paul—”

David stops talking, but Bristal starts.

“A handy? A blow job? What?”

“Whatever he wanted,” David says, a little color rising to his face. “I guess that’s how things had operated where she’d been before. She got room and board, but the room wasn’t exactly private, and nothing was free.”

“But Paul Hendrix wasn’t taking her up on it?” I ask.

“No, of course not.” David shakes his head. “But she still locked her bedroom door. Erin told me that after Denise left, she went in to clean up her room and found the bed completely made, except all the pillows were in the closet, along with a stash of food.”

“She’d been sleeping in there, in case of a surprise visitor,” Bristal says, in a knowing voice. “And keeping food back for herself if she got cut off.”

“Yeah,” David says. “I guess so. Which, I mean, it’s horrible to consider what would drive her to think she had to do those things, but she never said a word of thanks to the Hendrixes, either.”

“You said she left?” I ask, scribbling furiously in my notes, now that the app is turned off.

“Yeah, split town,” David says. “She got picked up with a bunch of kids down at the riverbed—your folks ever tell you about that?”

“Drinking spot,” I say.

“Still is,” Bristal adds.

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that last part,” David says.

“We’re pretending like we don’t hear a lot,” Bristal says sharply, nodding toward my phone, the face of which is black and blank.

“Fair enough,” David continues. “So, Denise and a bunch of kids were down at the riverbed on June tenth. It had been especially dry that summer, and kids were driving right down the banks, parking their cars in the dry bed, and drinking. Most of the time, Foxglove would just ignore the things that went on down there. I mean, everyone in Henley had their first beer under that bridge, so it’s not exactly a big secret. But with it being so dry, and the heat piling up thunderheads during the day, it upped the chance of flash floods.”

“More than a chance, it turned out,” I say, idly doodling a dog in the corner of my notes. In my illustration, his ears are pointy and his tongue hangs out to the side in a comical smile. Irritated with myself, I scratch it out. “So the sheriff cleared the kids out, for their own good?”

“That was the intention,” David says. “Foxglove didn’t even go in there with his flashers on. Just parked the cruiser above the bridge and shone the spotlight down on the kids, told them to hide their cans and get their asses home. Most everybody took it as the favor it was meant to be, except for Denise Halverson.”

“Did she have some words for Sheriff Foxglove?” I ask, when David falls silent.

“Bad words?” Bristal adds.

“Uh . . .” David glances at the phone again, as if to reassure himself it’s not on. “More than words. She hit him.”