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“How’s everyone in Starksville?”
They told me how my cousins were doing and said my niece Naomi—my late brother Aaron’s daughter, now a criminal lawyer—had just won another big homicide trial.
“Other than that, Starksville does not change,” Aunt Connie said.
“But you do,” I said. “I just can’t get over how great you look.”
Aunt Connie beamed.
“Ozempic,” Aunt Hattie said again.
Connie’s face fell. “Why do you keep saying that, Hats?”
“Because it’s true.”
“And that’s a crime?”
Her sister-in-law shifted in her seat. “No.”
“Better not be, because all my lab numbers are perfect now. No diabetes. No heart issues. My knees and hips have never felt better.”
“And that’s great,” Aunt Hattie said, though she sounded unconvinced.
“It is a miracle,” Connie said firmly. She looked at me. “Which is what I’m hoping will happen for your grandmother.”
“Me too,” I said. “By the way, have either of you heard from—”
From down the hall, Damon ran toward us, waving his phone. “Bree says she’s stirring, Dad! Nana Mama might be waking up!”
38
JOHN SAMPSON PULLED INTO the lot outside the Avid Eyeball at a quarter to four on Sunday afternoon. Three cars sat out front idling in the heat; their drivers—two guys in their fifties tapping their steering wheels, and one twentysomething smoking a joint—sat waiting impatiently for the strip club to open.
Sampson did not wait. He got out, scanned the exterior of the building, and saw at least three cameras.
He went to the front door, knocked hard on the window with the Closed sign, and got a glare from a brassy blonde with big lips sitting behind the admission counter filing her nails. Behind her hung a large painting of a woman’s eye with long lashes.
When Sampson pressed his badge and credentials to the window, she acted like the weight of the world had just landed on her shoulders. She sighed, tossed aside her emery board, and came to the door. She was wearing a sleeveless white jumpsuit that revealed plenty of cleavage.
The blonde opened the door and stepped back. John heard car doors opening behind him. She waited until he’d entered the lobby, then leaned out and shouted, “Fifteen minutes, you effing horndogs!”
She slammed the door, locked it, and turned to Sampson with her arms crossed. “Our liquor license isn’t expired, the dancers are all older than eighteen, we don’t let the girls date the patrons, and we do not allow or serve minors. Period.”
“All good to know. Your name?”
“I’m Tina here.”
“Real name, Tina?”
She pursed her puffy lips. “Millicent White. Milly.”
“You the manager, Milly?”
“Until nine.”
“You talk to the night manager about what went down near here last night, Milly?”
“Keira?” she said, frowning. “No. What did the unhoused community do now?”
