It settled over the town, turning the asphalt soft and making the air in Billy Hargrove’s Camaro taste like hot leather and cigarettes. The radio, tuned low to some staticky rock station, was just background noise to the engine’s growl.

He pulled up to the curb outside your house just after sunset, the car idling with a possessive rumble. The street was quiet, just the buzz of cicadas and the distant sound of a TV through an open window.