The sheriff's car rumbled over the dirt road, each bump jostling Ikrist Raya against the cracked leather seat. He pressed his palms together in his lap, trying to stop his hands from trembling. Outside the window, the pines blurred by, and the warm smell of sap and dust drifted through a crack where the door didn't shut all the way.
In the front seat, Sheriff Hammond and Deputy Croft barely spoke. The sheriff's heavy voice cut through the low growl of the engine only once: "You best be honest, boy. That's the only thing keeps trouble off your neck."
Ikrist didn't answer. He didn't know what he was supposed to say. He'd already told the truth. He'd told Martha Long the truth. He'd told his mama. But somehow the truth seemed smaller than the car, smaller than the sheriff's broad shoulders and the cold shape of his badge.
They pulled into the yard behind the county jail — a squat, two-story building of brick and shadow. As the car stopped, Ikrist's eyes flicked to a barred window where a man stared out, hollow-eyed. The door swung open and the deputy's hand clamped around his arm again, guiding him out like he might run.
Inside, the jail smelled of sweat, stale coffee, and something like metal. The hallway was dim, lined with doors that looked too heavy to ever open again. The deputy pushed Ikrist down a narrow corridor until they reached a small room with one dusty window and a battered wooden table.
"Sit," Sheriff Hammond ordered, pointing at a chair that wobbled on the concrete floor.
Ikrist sat. His feet didn't touch the ground. The sheriff dropped a thick folder on the table with a thud that made Ikrist flinch.
"You know why you're here?" the sheriff asked, voice low but sharp.
Ikrist nodded slowly. "The girls, sir."
"The girls," the sheriff repeated. He flipped open the folder — though Ikrist couldn't see what was inside, he saw black-and-white photos and scribbled notes. None of it looked like his neat pencil drawings at home.
"You told 'em where to find flowers. That true?"
"Yes, sir."
"You follow 'em?"
"No, sir."
The sheriff leaned back, chair creaking. His eyes were pale and flat, like stones in a creek bed.
"You know what happened to those girls?"
Ikrist shook his head. He felt his throat closing up.
The sheriff leaned forward so close Ikrist could see the stubble on his chin, smell the bitter coffee on his breath.
"They're dead, boy. Both of 'em."
Ikrist's eyes widened. His heart thudded against his ribs. "No, sir," he whispered. "I didn't — I just told 'em where the flowers was."
The sheriff slapped the folder shut so hard the table rattled.
"You expect me to believe that? Two little white girls go missin', found dead in a ditch, last seen talkin' to you. And you know nothin'?"
Ikrist opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His chest ached with something he couldn't name — fear, disbelief, something too big for a boy to hold.
Sheriff Hammond tapped the folder with one thick finger. "You got brothers and sisters, don't you?"
Ikrist nodded.
"You want 'em safe?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then you best tell us how it happened. Tell us where you was. Tell us what you did."
"I didn't do nothin', Sheriff," Ikrist said, his voice cracking. "I swear it. I just showed 'em where the maypops was. Then I went home."
The sheriff's face tightened. He leaned closer, close enough that Ikrist could see a thin scar above his eyebrow.
"Don't lie to me, boy. You think folks like you can lie to folks like me? Huh? Is that what your mama taught you? Lie to the sheriff?"
Ikrist's eyes filled with tears he refused to let fall. He shook his head, his small fists clenched in his lap.
The deputy, standing by the door, finally spoke. "Sheriff, maybe we should—"
"Shut up, Croft," Hammond snapped.
He turned back to Ikrist, softer now, too soft — a tone Ikrist didn't trust.
"Look here, son. If you just tell us you did it — if you just tell us you got mad, or they laughed at you, or you wanted to show off — we can help you. You say the words, we help you. Else this whole town gonna come knockin' on that jailhouse door wantin' to help themselves."
Ikrist stared at the floor. The crack in the concrete looked like a crooked smile. His voice barely made it past his lips.
"I didn't do it, sir."
Sheriff Hammond stood so fast his chair clattered to the floor. He slammed his palm on the table, making Ikrist jump.
"Boy, you listen good — you're gonna stay in that cell 'til you do some rememberin'. You hear me? Maybe by tomorrow you'll find the truth sittin' in that head of yours."
He yanked open the door, nodding to Deputy Croft. The deputy took Ikrist by the arm again, rougher this time.
They marched him down another hallway. Metal doors clanged open, then shut behind him. The cell they pushed him into was barely bigger than his father's toolshed. A single narrow cot against the wall, a toilet with a rusty pipe. A small barred window too high to see out of.
Ikrist sank onto the cot. His legs dangled, not quite reaching the cold concrete floor.
Outside, he could hear the low rumble of voices — other men locked behind thick doors. A cough. A curse. A prayer whispered in the dark.
Ikrist lay back, staring at the ceiling. He pictured Amie's braids, the maypop flower still tucked behind her ear. He wondered if Mama was waiting on the porch, apron clutched in her fists, whispering his name into the wind.
He closed his eyes and tried to remember every good thing he knew — the warm smell of cornbread, the tickle of pine needles under bare feet, the whistle of the sawmill that meant Daddy was coming home. He told himself he'd be home too — that this was just a mistake, a bad dream.
But outside his cell door, the sheriff's footsteps echoed like a promise that tomorrow, the truth they wanted wasn't the truth Ikrist carried in his heart.