Chapter 11

He came in behind two lawyers, holding a cardboard tray of gas-station coffee, at 5:52 a.m. No suit. Jeans. A gray coat. The kind of boots you buy to stand in mud for eight hours. Julian Ashford, eight days out of a job he'd held for eleven years, standing in the intake bay of a converted feed store in a parish he'd never been able to find on a map. Dana went white and reached for the phone. "It's fine," I said. It was interesting, watching him look around. The dented cabinets. The donated...