I can hear Ashley telling me to keep my nose clean if I want to get off probation anytime soon, but the rage is already beginning to rise to the surface. I need my damn drum kit. Now.

Once he’s got a hold on his giggling, McKinley stares me straight in the face. “Just so we’re clear, I was particularly amused by the part where the local drug dealer, you know, the one that takes sexual favors as payment from anything with a pussy, threatened to rat out my dad.”

The shock on my face must show. I didn’t know that was common knowledge, but there it is.

Dixie doesn’t know how far I fell the year she was in Houston, but Jaggerd McKinley obviously does. What I can’t work out is why he wouldn’t have told her already and gotten me out of his way.

“No wait, wait,” he says mockingly, as if trying to stave off another fit of laughter. “It might’ve been the part where the strung-out cokehead told me I didn’t know jack shit about him when I’m the one who rebuilt Dallas’s truck last year after you nearly killed him in it. News flash: the Amarillo PD don’t go out of their way to protect lowlife scum like drug users and distributors so I got a nice, long look at the details on the paperwork when it passed through here for insurance purposes. So, who knows, man. I guess it’s a toss-up on which part of your bullshit speech I found the most entertaining.”

There is no trace of humor in his voice. He’s good and pissed now and so am I.

If ever there was someone I didn’t want to know my business, particularly business I have successfully managed to keep from Dixie for this long, it’s her jealous ex-boyfriend.

When I speak, my voice comes out low and lethal. “You and I live on the same side of this town and I bet you’ve got a few secrets you’d rather not be made public. Daddy’s side business is probably just one of them.” When he doesn’t argue, I finish speaking my piece. “You can judge me all you want and I couldn’t give two shits what you think. But I can tell you this: if any of that information makes its way to Dixie through any channels other than me directly telling her—which, believe it or not, I do intend to do—you will wish you’d kept your mouth shut.”

It’s low, the empty threat. Well, mostly empty. But I’m panicking. If McKinley knows that much, then it’s likely there are people who know more and might be less inclined to keep that knowledge to themselves.

I thought I had more time.

I had a plan.

My plan is shot to hell.

9 | Dixie

DID GAVIN TALK to you yet?

I wake up Wednesday morning to my alarm blaring out a song called “Better Than You Left Me,” and an hour-old text from my brother.

I wipe the sleep from my eyes and squint while texting him back.

Sort of. Why?

Dallas doesn’t respond right away and he’s on his honeymoon, so I don’t really want to think about what he might be doing or risk calling and interrupting.

I take my time showering and eating breakfast. My first lesson isn’t coming until 1 P.M. so there’s no rush.

After I’ve tamed my hair into a manageable low ponytail and dressed in well-worn jeans and a black tank top with red letters that say KEEP CALM AND HUG A DRUMMER—what can I say, I have a thing for drummers—I pick up around the house and unload and reload the dishwasher. How jealous people would be if they could see my glamorous life.

It’s not until the doorbell chimes that I realize it’s time for Maisey’s piano lesson. I don’t realize how empty the house seems until I have company.

“Hey, ladies,” I say to six-year-old Maisey and her mom, Leandra.

Leandra was a sixteen-year-old rape victim who used pain pills and narcotics to try to ignore her resulting pregnancy until she couldn’t anymore. They’ve have a rough go of it and Maisey is tiny for her age, something I know Leandra still feels an immense amount of guilt over, but she’s actually one of my best students. Maybe the best.

“Hi, Miss Dixie,” Maisey says. “I practiced on my princess keyboard all week!”

“Yeah!” I give her an enthusiastic high-five. “Go you!”

Leandra grins at us and shoots me a thankful look. “She really did. She’s getting so good. I’m going to grab some groceries and I’ll be back, probably before you’re done.”

“Sounds good.” I close the door behind Leandra and usher Maisey over to the piano bench. “Show me which piece you’ve been working on.”

For the next half hour I work with Maisey. Her mom arrives a few minutes before her lesson is over and we play a mini-concert complete with a curtsy.

In the hour before my next lesson, I sit and I wait.

He’ll be here. He always is.

He won’t ring the bell or knock. He’ll just wander almost aimlessly up to the porch and stand there until I let him inside.

It took him two weeks to come inside and a third week before he told me his name.

Liam.

I don’t know what his story is, or why he shows up here, but I always make sure to have a snack and a beginner piano lesson ready.

Today is the same as before. I listen for him, opening the door once I hear him on the front porch.

The sight of him breaks my heart and yet again, I don’t see a car in sight that could’ve dropped him off. His clothes are stained and threadbare and his hair is oily as if he could use a good bath. I want to offer him more than cookies or a sandwich or a piano lesson but I can’t find the words that would make this appropriate. So I just stick to our routine. For now.

“Good afternoon, Liam.” I’m careful to keep my voice low. He’s got the demeanor of a cornered animal that might flee the room at any time.

“Hi,” he says just as quietly.

“Come sit,” I say, pulling out the piano bench. “I picked out ‘Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star’ today. It’s a good one.”

His eyes narrow like they always do, as if he’s waiting for this to be a lie or a trick. Liam is a dark-haired little boy with matching eyes that darken when he gets frustrated, which happens often. He reminds me of another broody musician I know. I contemplate asking Gavin to give him drum lessons because piano, violin, and even guitar pretty much just piss him off. I want to love and hug Liam the same way I want to smother Gavin with love to help guide him out of the darkness, but that would likely piss him off, too.

Liam keeps a shield up, an impenetrable one I’m almost envious of.

He stumbles through the song with my encouragement two full times before telling me he’s done.

“Okay, that was good. Did you want to try any other instruments today?”

He shakes his head and stares at the floor.

“Whew, playing piano is tiring work. You want a sandwich and some pretzels or something? Tea? A soda?”

Liam’s eyes lift and lighten for a few seconds before he shrugs. “That’d be okay I guess.”

Once I’ve retrieved the peanut butter and jelly sandwich and pretzels, I set them down on the table along with a sandwich for myself. I grab both a grape soda and a glass of iced tea, not sure which he’ll prefer. He reaches for the soda and downs almost all of it in two drinks.

Watching him eat makes me lightheaded and heartbroken. He eats like he hasn’t eaten in months.

I slide my plate in his direction. “You know what? I messed up. I put grape jelly on my sandwich and I only like strawberry. Think you could eat mine, too, so it doesn’t go to waste?”

He barely takes a breath before nodding and inhaling the second sandwich.

Every week I tell myself I’m going to find out what this kid’s deal is, who’s neglecting him this way. Every week I get scared that if I push him he’ll disappear. Asking about his parents has been a major failure each time. His mom is dead, he says, and his dad doesn’t like “no one in their business.”

I decide to take a different approach.

“Liam? Can you tell me about your house? What it’s close to?”