Six years I wrote the Bayou Teeth's history.
Every run log. Every wedding toast. Every funeral program for a brother we buried too young. I was the club's memory, and I kept every secret they ever handed me — including the ones I made with the Road Captain on his couch in the back room.
Then he pinned his patch to a paralegal from Baton Rouge at the Fourth of July picnic, and I put my pen down for good.
Six months later, the feds serve the Bayou Teeth with a RICO subpoena and my name is in the paperwork.
Dupre shows up at my desk at the parish records office with a smile I've seen him use on judges.
He needs me to remember. He needs me to write.
This time he's going to answer my questions on the record, in front of a lawyer, and I'm going to keep writing it all down — including the part where he tells me why it was her and never me.
