CHAPTER NINE
“Looks like we’re back to square one,” Harley said as she ruffled through the carton, scavenging the last few French fries at the bottom. “Boudoin is clean.”
They sat in Callaway’s truck in the middle of a parking lot, a streetlamp casting an orange haze over them. Moths bumped and fluttered around the bulb. Tin foil wrappers, balled napkins, and half-empty sauce packets lay on the seat between them like evidence from a crime scene.
Callaway rolled a drumstick in his fingers, picking out the last few pieces of chicken with his teeth before discarding the bone. He shook his head ruefully as he plucked a fresh napkin.
“Nothing clean about that punk,” he said, his upper lip bulging as he worked to free a piece of chicken with his tongue. “But innocent of this crime? Looks tha
