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Danny is watching something on Netflix without really seeing it when his phone rings.

He looks at the screen, sees it’s Becky, and thinks she’s had time to change her mind about loaning him her car.

Only that’s not it.

She tells him they better cool it for awhile, keep their distance.

Just until the cops clear him of the Wicker thing, as of course they will.

“But see, here’s the thing, Danny.

Andy’s talking about going back to court and suing me… or whatever they call it… for custody of Darla Jean.

And if his lawyer can say I’ve been spending time with someone under suspicion for… you know, that girl… he might be able to convince a judge.”

“Really, Beck? Didn’t you tell me he’s six months behind on his child support payments? I don’t think a judge would be very eager to turn DJ over to a deadbeat dad, do you?”

“I know, but… Danny, please try to understand… if he had Darla Jean, he wouldn’t have to pay child support.

In fact… I don’t know exactly how these things work, but I might have to pay him.”

“When was the last time he even took DJ for the weekend?”

She has an answer for that, too, more weak bullshit, and he doesn’t know why he’s pressing the issue.

It’s never been true love, just an arrangement between two single people who are living in a trailer park and edging into middle age.

She doesn’t want to be involved? Fine.

But he’ll miss Darla Jean, who helped him plant flowers to dress up his cement block steps a little.

DJ is a sweetie, and—

An idea strikes him.

It’s unpleasant, it’s plausible, it’s unpleasantly plausible.

“Are you afraid I might do something to DJ, Becky? Molest her, or something? Is that what this is about?”

“No, of course not!”

But he hears it in her voice, or thinks he does, and it comes to the same.

“Take care of yourself, Beck.”

“Danny—”

He ends the call, sits down, and looks at the TV, where some male doofus is telling some female doofus that it’s complicated.

“Ain’t it just?” Danny says, and zaps the show into oblivion.

He sits and looks at the blank television screen and thinks, I will not pity myself.

I just screwed up reporting what I found, and I won’t pity myself.

Then he thinks of Jalbert’s eyes, crawling over his face.

“Watch out for that one,” he says.

For the first time in two years he finds himself wishing for a beer.