{"product_id":"ozark-dogs-isbn-9781641295680","title":"Ozark Dogs","description":"\u003cb\u003eIn this Southern thriller, two families grapple with the aftermath of a murder in their small Arkansas town.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter his son is convicted of capital murder, Vietnam War veteran Jeremiah Fitzjurls takes over the care of his granddaughter, Joanna, raising her with as much warmth as can be found in an Ozark junkyard outfitted to be an armory. He teaches her how to shoot and fight, but there is not enough training in the world to protect her when the dreaded Ledfords, notorious meth dealers and fanatical white supremacists, come to collect on Joanna as payment for a long-overdue blood debt.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHeaded by rancorous patriarch Bunn and smooth-talking, erudite Evail, the Ledfords have never forgotten what the Fitzjurls family did to them, and they will not be satisfied until they have taken an eye for an eye. As they seek revenge, and as Jeremiah desperately searches for his granddaughter, their narratives collide in this immersive story about family and how far some will go to honor, defend—or in some cases, destroy it.\u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eOzark Dogs\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003eWinner of the Arkansiana Award for Fiction\u003cbr\u003eShortlisted for the CWA Ian Fleming Steel Dagger Award\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNominated for the Barry Award for Best Mystery or Crime Novel\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA National Bestseller\u003cbr\u003eA \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e Best Crime Novel of 2023\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Guardian \u003c\/i\u003eBest Crime and Thrillers of 2023\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eSouth Florida Sun-Sentinel \u003c\/i\u003eBest Mystery Fiction of 2023\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/b\u003eCrimeReads Best Crime Novels of 2023\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eCrimeReads Best Noir Fiction of 2023\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eA \u003ci\u003eFinancial Times \u003c\/i\u003eBest Books of Summer\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e An ABA IndieNext Pick for April 2023\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eOzark Dogs\u003c\/i\u003e is a gripping family drama that mixes murder with mistaken identity and hidden secrets. Each revelation shocked me more than the last. I simply could not put it down.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Brendan Slocumb, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Violin Conspiracy\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Raw, gritty, and darkly beautiful noir at its finest. Cranor digs deep into the hard places, the hard choices that crush and grind. And he does so with great tenderness for his flawed and broken characters as they seek revenge, cling to honor, and sacrifice everything for family. This is a writer to watch.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Lisa Unger, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eSecluded Cabin Sleeps Six\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“There’s a little more hope in Eli Cranor’s \u003ci\u003eOzark Dogs\u003c\/i\u003e, but just like his acclaimed debut, \u003ci\u003eDon’t Know Tough\u003c\/i\u003e, it dwells in the murky recesses of rural Arkansas, where people often commit acts of violence out of desperation . . . Cranor doesn’t hide the horror or the emotional wreckage, but he also never resorts to gratuitous descriptions.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—Sarah Weinman, \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Sweeps the reader in from the first page . . . \u003ci\u003eOzark Dogs\u003c\/i\u003e is a gritty, authentic triumph, one howling to be turned into a film or TV series.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Financial Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “[\u003ci\u003eOzark Dogs\u003c\/i\u003e] finds poetry amid the darkness in the most unlikely of places . . . Like Woodrell, Cranor writes about people who, on the surface, might be called simple folks but are, in reality, complicated with complex motives and emotions.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Oline Cogdill, \u003ci\u003eSouth Florida Sun-Sentinel\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eOzark Dogs\u003c\/i\u003e shows no sign of sophomore slump. It’s a relentless grit-noir thriller of family secrets, betrayals and the toxic marriage of addiction and violence.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Colette Bancroft, \u003ci\u003eThe Tampa Bay Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Eli Cranor has an eye for catfish coutnry and an ear for its voices. As Colt and Jeremiah embark on a life-or-death chase through the backwoods, Cranor stirs into the twisty mix white supremacists, crafty meth dealers and bloodhounds. Woof.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—The Times (UK) \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Eli Cranor’s\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003esuperb new novel \u003ci\u003eOzark Dogs\u003c\/i\u003e tunnels  into your brain with feverish power. A story of family burdens and dark  legacies, it’s thrillingly told, deeply wrenching, not to be missed.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—Megan Abbott, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe Turnout\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A  sophomore effort of remarkable scope and stride, \u003ci\u003eOzark Dogs \u003c\/i\u003eis a saga  of blood spilt and blood owed, which at its bones reveals how far we  will go to protect the ones we love. Eli Cranor is a fire that is  growing.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—David Joy, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Line That Held Us\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Eli Cranor writes about his people and his place with a bloodred  certainty and a careful eye toward the things that both bind us together  and tear us apart. \u003ci\u003eOzark Dogs\u003c\/i\u003e does not compromise one single beat.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—Michael Farris Smith, author of \u003ci\u003eNick\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Fighter\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Whatever darkness lives in the space between a finger and a trigger also lives in the pages of \u003ci\u003eOzark Dogs\u003c\/i\u003e.  A tale of blood, guilt, family, and murder, this one will move from the  junkyard straight into your heart. Cranor is one of the South’s best  contemporary chroniclers, and his keen eye is on full display here.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Gabino Iglesias, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Devil Takes You Home\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e “A propulsive, gritty thriller that’s all Arkansas.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Arkansas Times\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e “Propulsive.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Arkansas Democrat-Gazette\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e “Scorching country noir . . . There is not one character on either side of the family divide who doesn't bring the reader up short by displaying an unexpected layer of complexity—and even, sometimes, compassion. In only his second novel, Cranor has transformed a familiar noir theme into a multidimensional tragedy of great power and beauty.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e, Starred Review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A rural noir masterpiece.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Crime Fiction Lover\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The author has a superior gift for capturing the cadences and feel of Southern small towns. Greg Iles fans will be eager for Cranor’s next.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e “A feud between Arkansas families escalates with the fury of Greek tragedy... Family loyalty, young love, honoring the dead—they’re all here, and they all go terribly wrong.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eDon’t Know Tough\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“There is a raw ferocity to Cranor’s prose, perfectly in keeping with the novel’s examination of curdling masculinity.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Sarah Weinman, \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A major work from a bright, young talent.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Tod Goldberg, \u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e, **** out of **** stars\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Cranor is an author to watch.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Oline Cogdill, \u003ci\u003eThe South Florida Sun-Sentinel\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Eli Cranor is that rare writer who can make you gasp, cry and cheer often in the same paragraph.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—S.A. Cosby, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eRazorblade Tears\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eBlacktop Wasteland\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eEli Cranor \u003c\/b\u003elives and writes from the banks of Lake Dardanelle, a reservoir of the Arkansas River nestled in the heart of \u003ci\u003eTrue Grit\u003c\/i\u003e country. His work has won \u003ci\u003eThe Greensboro Review\u003c\/i\u003e’s Robert Watson Literary Prize and been featured in \u003ci\u003eMissouri Review\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eOxford American\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eEllery Queen\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Strand\u003c\/i\u003e and others. Eli also pens the weekly column “Where I’m Writing From” for the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette, and his craft column, “Shop Talk,” appears monthly at CrimeReads. His critically acclaimed debut novel, \u003ci\u003eDon’t Know Tough\u003c\/i\u003e, won the Peter Lovesey First Crime Novel Contest.\u003cb\u003e1.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The sun sank behind the ruins in ribbons of red, long shadows running the length of the junkyard. Cars stood in towers above the old man. He steered the front loader as two prongs pressed down on the hood of a rusted Crown Vic. A claw emerged and the engine block came out clean. In the distance, a hydraulic slab crunched a Ford truck like a beer can.\u003cbr\u003e      The last of the day’s light caught and gleamed on a small glass bottle in the man’s breast pocket. Tucked neatly behind the bottle was an envelope. Sounds of destruction crackled as the man guided the Crown Vic into the crusher atop the flattened Ford. He reached for the pocket, letting his finger slide across the bottle’s plastic lid, rough at the edges. He took the envelope instead, black fingerprints on white paper, eyes scanning the words: \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e      \u003ci\u003eDear Joanna Fitzjurls,\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e      \u003ci\u003eWe are delighted to inform you that the Committee on Admissions has admitted you to the University of Arkansas’s class of . . . \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e      The letter crumpled in the old man’s hands. He stood in the cab, stretched, then exited. His steps stirred small clouds from the dried red dirt. He walked up close to the crusher. Close enough to see the dark splotches marring the giant slabs. In the dying light, the oil stains reminded him of blood. With a flick of his wrist, the letter disappeared inside the deconstructed Crown Vic. \u003cbr\u003e      Junkyards were good for that. \u003cbr\u003e      Still, the old man knew nothing was ever buried in the junkyard, only lessened, reduced, then stacked high to the sky, pyramids built block by block, secrets hidden deep within their tombs. \u003cbr\u003e      The crusher descended again and the old man limped away. He was thick around the waist. More square than round. Thick all the way through, from his ankles to his neck with skin the color of natural leather, pale but tan. The oval nameplate on his Carhartt work shirt read, “Jeremiah.” \u003cbr\u003e      The sun disappeared over the heap as he made it back to the office, a sheet-metal structure with concrete walls. No windows. A small patch of thorny roses grew up through the cracked earth beside the front door. Jeremiah steadied himself, the bottle quivering in his fingers. \u003cbr\u003e      “Drink up, Hattie,” he said, pouring the brown liquid around the base of the stems, a ritual he performed every evening.\u003cbr\u003e      Jeremiah tucked the bottle back in a pocket of his camouflage cargo pants and opened the door. The office was more than an office but not quite a home. A fireplace. A hearth. Two chairs around a table in what could be considered a kitchen. Cellar shadows shrouded the expanse, darkening a largemouth bass that hung above the doorway. Jeremiah closed the door, tapping at an electronic keypad welded to the wall. A red light, a green light, and then a heavy clunk—the office doors locking behind him. \u003cbr\u003e      Music came from the depths of the office house. The trebly tenor out of place. The walls reflected the sound in eerie echoes, the thick concrete erected for protection, not acoustics. Jeremiah tiptoed his way through the living room, glancing toward the melody. In the corner, back behind the threadbare sofa, there stood another door, this one small, barely reaching his shoulders, but thick. Six inches of steel. Jeremiah ducked as he entered the vault.  \u003cbr\u003e      Inside there were enough guns to start a war, or end one. The room was an armory, the walls lined with friends from his past: sawed-off shotguns, Glocks hanging from their trigger guards, assault rifles with bump stocks, infrared scopes, and banana clips. An M72 LAW, an anti-tank weapon, lay atop a table in the back of the room as if it were a rusty lawnmower blade, some broken part the old man had put off fixing. \u003cbr\u003e      Jeremiah dug in his pocket for the bottle, then placed it on a shelf. The handgun went up next. He hung the belt and the holster from a hook up high. Dangling beside the gun was a Bronze Star, a thing Uncle Sam had given Jeremiah once he’d taken everything else away. In rows beside the star stood books, shelves of them: Hemingway, Faulkner, Flannery O’Connor, even some John Grisham and Stephen King. Then there were the ancient tomes, books that held the answers: Plato’s \u003ci\u003eRepublic\u003c\/i\u003e,\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003ea few thicker volumes of Schopenhauer, a skinny paperback edition of the \u003ci\u003eTao Te Ching\u003c\/i\u003e, and of course, the Bible, its spine loose and bendy—leathery—like the old man’s skin. There were more books than guns. Jeremiah learned long ago a book was a weapon, and like always, he’d gone about arming himself.  \u003cbr\u003e      There was a single picture tacked to the wall: an old man and a child, the sun setting over the tip of a distant Ozark hill. Jeremiah lingered there, eyes falling to the lone rusty rifle in the vault. The rest of the guns were clean, spotless, even the old rocket launcher. Jeremiah closed the door on his way out.\u003cbr\u003e      He walked briskly through the house now, free of burden, the music growing louder the deeper he went. He stopped outside the bedroom door, peering through the crack, and watched as his granddaughter mouthed the words to a song he did not know. Her room was dull despite the pinks and paisleys, the only light coming from a fluorescent tube flickering above her head. She wore shorts and a Razorback T-shirt, the University of Arkansas mascot snorting across her chest. A full-length, fancy blue dress hung long and sequined from the closet door. It had cost more than the junkyard brought in over the last two weeks. The dress sparkled as Joanna brushed layer after layer of thick pale powder onto her cheeks.\u003cbr\u003e      “Can’t hide it, Jo,” Jeremiah said, standing outside the door. “You are what you are.”\u003cbr\u003e      Joanna glanced over her shoulder. “And what’s that?”\u003cbr\u003e      “My granddaughter.”\u003cbr\u003e      She smiled.\u003cbr\u003e      “Just think you might be overdoing it.”\u003cbr\u003e      “Go get dressed,” Jo said, leaning into the mirror. “You got to be presentable, too.”\u003cbr\u003e      “You sure about this?”\u003cbr\u003e      “Who else is gonna walk me?”\u003cbr\u003e      Jo turned and looked at her grandfather, her face a mixture of everything good from both her parents: steel-blue eyes, full lips, high cheek bones, and the cutest little nose that turned up at the tip when she smiled. But try getting the good people of Taggard, Arkansas, to see beyond the girl’s history, her father, or worse—her mother. Maybe tonight, Jeremiah thought, lost in those dark-blue eyes. Maybe just for tonight, they’ll forget.\u003cbr\u003e      “You hear me?” Jo said.\u003cbr\u003e      Jeremiah blinked. \u003cbr\u003e      “You think we could call him?”\u003cbr\u003e      “Already running late.”\u003cbr\u003e      “Shit, Pop.”\u003cbr\u003e      To look at her, you’d think Jo was a saint, but the girl already had a mouth on her, and Jeremiah knew right where she’d gotten it.\u003cbr\u003e      “Cost an arm and a leg to make that call,” Jeremiah said. “Hell, there’s no guaranteeing he’ll call back.”\u003cbr\u003e      “\u003ci\u003ePop\u003c\/i\u003e.”\u003cbr\u003e      That was all she had to say: that one word, those three letters, and Jeremiah would do just about anything. He produced a blocky flip phone out of his cargo pants. He dialed the number, pressed the ancient device to his ear, and waited. Jo eyed only the phone. There was a silence behind the music. They were closer now, back to where it had all begun. The junkyard felt it too, despite the four-foot-thick weatherproof walls, despite the armory in the living room vault. These hallowed grounds had not forgotten the storm.\u003cbr\u003e      “Need to leave a message for an inmate,” Jeremiah said, breaking the silence. “Yeah, Thomas Fitzjurls. Tell him to call his daughter in the next thirty minutes. She’s about to win Homecoming Queen.”\u003cbr\u003e      Jo beamed and turned back to the mirror. Her hair was woven in tight braids around her head, an attempt to control her thick mane. Jeremiah knew she’d done the braids herself. A girl raised by a grandfather had to learn to do things herself: hair and makeup, cook and clean. \u003cbr\u003e      “You heard anything else from Tech?” Jeremiah said, sliding the phone back in his pocket.\u003cbr\u003e      “\u003ci\u003eTech?\u003c\/i\u003e”\u003cbr\u003e      “I’d sure like to keep you close.”\u003cbr\u003e      “You know I’m going to \u003ci\u003ethe \u003c\/i\u003eUniversity, Pop. Going up to Fayetteville,” she said, pointing at the snarling tusker on her shirt. “They got the best pre-veterinary program in the state.”\u003cbr\u003e      “I could still use some help around here. And money, we ain’t even talked about the money.”\u003cbr\u003e      He studied her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes gave nothing away, steady and focused. He knew the school would email her—he could only crush so many letters—and then summer would come and she’d be gone. \u003cbr\u003e      “Jo?” Jeremiah said, tugging at his lapels. “I’s thinking tonight, me and you could climb up Babel and watch the stars.”\u003cbr\u003e      “But we got the dan—” Jo cut the word short, eyeing her grandfather. “Yeah, Pop. Sure. That sounds good.”\u003cbr\u003e      Jeremiah grinned.\u003cbr\u003e      “But now I got to try and squeeze my ass in that dress.”\u003cbr\u003e      “Right,” Jeremiah said and turned. \u003cbr\u003e      “Let me know when Dad calls.”\u003cbr\u003e Jeremiah closed the door behind him. He waited until he heard the security chain on the other side slide across the groove, a sturdy, secure sound, and then he limped back down the hall.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It took Jeremiah less than five minutes to shave and change into his suit. His pants were black, the blazer blue. Dangly buttons lined his cuffs like golden cicada shells. Jeremiah was unaware of anything other than his old phone, waiting for something he knew better than to wait for. \u003cbr\u003e      “Damn it, Tommy. Call the girl back.” The old man’s voice hissed against the silent walls. “It’s the least you could do.”\u003cbr\u003e      He tossed the phone up, caught it, then walked back to Jo’s room.\u003cbr\u003e      Three knocks. \u003cbr\u003e      Nothing. \u003cbr\u003e      Jeremiah knocked again and then he heard talking, low hushed tones. He knocked twice more before the security chain slid away. Jo stood before him, the dress erasing any misconceptions he’d had of her still being his little girl: tight in the hips, the curves of a woman above and below.\u003cbr\u003e      “Talking to somebody?” Jeremiah said. \u003cbr\u003e      “Humane Society. They want me to work tomorrow.”\u003cbr\u003e      “The Saturday after Homecoming?”\u003cbr\u003e      “Said it’s the least I could do, since you’re always crunching up their strays.”\u003cbr\u003e      Jeremiah nodded, but his eyes were trained only on the phone in her hand. “You didn’t call her, did you?”\u003cbr\u003e      “Who?”\u003cbr\u003e      “You know who.”\u003cbr\u003e      “Pop, come \u003ci\u003eon\u003c\/i\u003e. I don’t even have her number.”\u003cbr\u003e      Jo held the cell phone at an angle where Jeremiah couldn’t see the screen. She’d heard this speech before. She turned to face the mirror, smiling at her reflection as she said, “This’ll do.”\u003cbr\u003e      Jeremiah had never been good with words, especially when Jo and sparkly dresses were involved.\u003cbr\u003e      “You hear from Dad?”\u003cbr\u003e      Jeremiah considered lying, telling her the prison had called back and said the phones were down, but it was too late. Jo was staring at him now. Jeremiah looked away, down at the nightstand. The stationery he’d gotten her last Christmas—and every Christmas since she’d first learned to read and write—burned holes into the old man’s memory. The fountain pen she’d bought herself with the money she’d earned from the Humane Society rested neatly on the stationery, a half-written letter to a man she barely knew. \u003cbr\u003e      “I’m sure something came up,” Jo said and turned from the mirror, snatching her purse as she started past him. Jeremiah caught her arm before she made it to the door.\u003cbr\u003e      “You check your gun?”\u003cbr\u003e      Jo flashed him a look. \u003cbr\u003e      Jeremiah wasn’t letting this one go.\u003cbr\u003e      “It’s in the nightstand drawer, Pop. Right where it’s supposed to be. Safety’s on and everything.”\u003cbr\u003e      “One in the chamber?”\u003cbr\u003e      Jo leaned forward on her toes, pecked his cheek, and whispered, “There’s always one in the chamber.” \u003cbr\u003e      And then she was gone, down the hall, halfway across the living room when Jeremiah called out for her. \u003cbr\u003e “Yeah?” she said, already at work unlocking the series of bolts and chains attached to the front door. \u003cbr\u003e      “I’s thinking maybe tonight you should take The Judge.”\u003cbr\u003e      Jo stopped and turned to face him, eyes wide because she knew the reverence her grandfather held for his truck: a jacked-up, 1984 Chevy Silverado 4x4 with KC lights, a brush guard, and ribbed mud tires so thick they made short work of the Ozark hills. \u003cbr\u003e      “You mean it?”\u003cbr\u003e      “Figured you might need something mean to go with that dress.”\u003cbr\u003e      “What’re you gonna drive?”\u003cbr\u003e      “Thought maybe we could ride in together.”\u003cbr\u003e      Jo looked down. “But I’m already late.”\u003cbr\u003e      “I’m ready,” Jeremiah said, lifting his keys from the kitchen table.\u003cbr\u003e      “\u003ci\u003eNo\u003c\/i\u003e,” she said, then caught herself. “I mean . . . All the other girls won’t be riding to the game with their parents.”\u003cbr\u003e      “Neither would you,” Jeremiah said, a look on his face like \u003ci\u003eI’m just Pop.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e      “You know what I mean.”\u003cbr\u003e      Jeremiah tossed the keys across the living room. Jo caught them with one hand. \u003cbr\u003e      “But I \u003ci\u003ewill\u003c\/i\u003e be the only girl rolling up in a souped-up Chevy.”\u003cbr\u003e      Jeremiah watched his granddaughter turn and start working the locks again. Beyond that door were bloodlines and violence that ran deeper than the limestone caves burrowing their way through the Ozarks. He’d tried to explain it all to her before, tried to drudge up their history and put what had happened into words, but it never came out right. There were no words for the past.\u003cbr\u003e      The old man was so lost in his memories he didn’t realize the door was open now, revealing the junkyard and all that came with it. Jo’s voice brought him back, though, just like it always did.\u003cbr\u003e “See you at the game, Pop. Don’t be late.”","brand":"Soho Crime","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300247785701,"sku":"NP9781641295680","price":17.95,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781641295680.jpg?v=1767734415","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/ozark-dogs-isbn-9781641295680","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}