Nola didn’t budge. A few hours ago, when she checked the neighborhood’s security footage, she counted thirty-three different cars that entered Mint’s neighborhood on the night of the shooting. It wasn’t hard to find out which of those cars was registered to someone with a criminal record.
“You dropped off someone in Mint’s neighborhood. Then you came back and picked him up,” Nola whispered into De’Veon’s ear. “I want to know who.”
“Get it off! Please! My skin!” De’Veon screamed, twisting and squirming, wisps of smoke now rising from the envelope on his chest.
Nola shrugged, though he couldn’t see her. She glanced at her watch. Thirty seconds until the flame was at full—
“On my life . . . on my grandmother’s life . . . I don’t know shit!”
Nola turned to leave. The smoke was thick now, a rich black twirl. It smelled of burnt hair.
“Wait! My cousin! It was my fucking cousin, okay!?” De’Veon yelled. “I didn’t know what he was doing! He just asked me to drop him off!”
Nola turned. “Name?” she asked.
“Zion. Zion Lopez. He’s a moron.”
Nola tore the envelope from De’Veon’s chest and tossed it in the sink. Without a word, she headed for the door.
“Wait, what abou— My arms! They’re still—！ Untie me, you bitch!”
Nola kept walking, already typing the name into the browser on the burner phone she’d bought at a nearby gas station.
Zion Lopez.
40
They couldn’t figure out how to shut off the music.
“Check behind the bookcase,” Zig said.
“You think I didn’t?” John “Casper” Williams asked, staring up at the speaker in the ceiling, then searching the walls for a dial or off switch.
The music was classical, something with a piano. It was one of the two constants when you came to see Chaplain Pete: he always played music, and he always had candy on his desk. Today was fruit-flavored Tootsie Rolls, though only the yellows and pinks were left.
“Maybe it’s playing straight from God,” Casper said, his Tennessee accent saying the word God like it was two syllables. The youngest of seven siblings, Casper had a plump nose, hair the color of smoke, and just enough of a devilish twinkle in his green eyes to make him the go-to guy when it came to throwing all five of his brothers’ bachelor parties.
Those same talents had been put to use two years back, for Zig’s going-away dinner, where Casper ordered a massive sheet cake with light blue frosting that read: Goodbye Quitter! At Dover, the Navy required a three-year rotation. Many request early transfers—the heartbreak becoming too much. Casper got a special exemption that allowed him to serve for nearly a decade, the third-longest-serving employee since Zig left. Heart or no heart?
Heart to the tenth power.
“Casp, it’s fine—forget the music,” Zig said, glancing out the window, making sure no one was coming. All clear, though he couldn’t shake the feeling a storm was on its way.
“You expecting someone?” Casper asked.
Zig shook it off like it was nothing. He was wrong about that.
Zig took a seat across from the chaplain’s desk and clicked at the laptop Casper had brought. Onscreen was a Dover Autopsy Report.
Name of Deceased: Mint, Archibald
Cause of Death: Gunshot wound of the head and neck
Manner of Death: Homicide
Zig had read the report yesterday. When you’re the mortician, they give you a copy, along with a few ID pics stapled in the corner, so you’ll have a guide as you rebuild the victim’s face. Flicking his finger, Zig scrolled past the report, down to what he was really after. The file labeled: Photos.