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    Of course, Ryan killing Witherspoon made even less sense. Other than probably seeing each other around town, the two hadn’t really known each other. Why would the boy want to go after him? Although plausible, there wasn’t nearly enough evidence to support the theory.
    Cameron did learn that Ryan’s family background hadn’t been a stellar one. His father disappeared soon after he was born, and his mother dropped out of the picture several years later. After that, Ryan’s grandmother had raised him.
    Broken homes often create broken children , Cameron thought. Speaking with the grandmother might be the first step in finding out where Ryan went wrong, and why.

    ***

4087 Falcon Street
    Faith, New Mexico

    Bobbi Kimmons rented a one-bedroom apartment near the center of town. The place was actually nothing more than a garage converted to a granny flat off the main house. Whoever changed it into living quarters hadn’t done much to hide that. The structure itself was flat and boxy with a nondescript window hanging off to one side. Nothing fancy, for sure, not even a driveway to park a car. In fact, it looked as though she kept hers in an alley butting up against the neighboring hardware store.
    Much like the apartment, Bobbi’s ‘86 Camaro also seemed less-than-adequate. On one side, the rear bumper hung loosely, and on the other, a tattered strand of rope held it in place. The oxidation process had taken its toll on the body, robbing it not only of its original color, but of its smooth finish, giving the texture and appearance of sandpaper.
    Cameron parked behind her, then crossed a front yard teaming with crabgrass, along with an assortment of other weeds in various stages of bloom. At the front of the house, rusted hinges dangled off the frame where a screen door had once hung, and the main door itself seemed in need of a refurbish. It appeared someone had made a feeble attempt to paint over the warped, cracked wood, but that was already starting to peel away. Not the best place to raise a kid, Cameron thought, but at least the boy stayed with family.
    He pushed the doorbell, then knocked when he didn’t get a response. A few seconds later, the door opened to a narrow crack, revealing a ruby-tinged, twitching nose.
    “ Assistant Sheriff Cameron Dawson,” he said to the nose.
    The door moved open some more, exposing the face that went with it, which did not welcome, nor did it speak.
    “ I need to talk to you about your grandson, Ryan.”
    “ One minute.” Bobbi said, in a husky voice that sounded like too many cigarettes. She pushed the door closed, and Cameron heard the security chain disengaging. When it opened again, an odor of stale cigarette smoke emerged almost instantly, as did the hollow-cheeked woman herself.
    “ Well, don’t just stand there,” she snarled, her thick voice tempered with a combative undertone. “Come in!”
    Ignoring the less-than-warm welcome, Cameron followed her inside.
    “ I figured you’d be coming,” she said, ambling toward the kitchen. “I made tea.”
    Cameron heard glasses clanging together, combined with the faint sound of sniffling.
    Bobbi emerged from the kitchen holding two glasses filled with iced tea, placed one on a TV stand by the couch, and then motioned for Cameron to sit there. She took the other glass to a threadbare Lazy Boy recliner. After lowering herself into it, she reached for a pack of non-filtered Pall Malls and pulled one out, almost as if having one were as much a part of her responsibility as speaking to him. Holding the cigarette to her lips with two fingers, she lit-up, took one long drag, and inhaled every bit of it deep into her lungs. Two thick jets of gray smoke escaped through her nostrils, becoming thinner with each passing second. Looking much more relaxed after a calming dose of nicotine, she looked up at Cameron. “So what can I do ya for?”
    “ Tell me,” Cameron said, deciding to delve right in. “What happened with