Touch of Evil

Colleen Thompson

LOVE SELL NEW YORK CITY

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

A Touch of Danger

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Praise

Other Books By

Copyright

A Touch of Danger

If Ross were a better person, he’d stop things right now. Point out to her that she was worth a hell of a lot more than the back seat tumble she’d just offered.

But the truth was, words would never convince her. And the greater truth was, that look, that touch, that body of hers had him so wild with the need to have her that it was all he could do to grind out the condition that she go with him to his house.

If she turned and walked away from him, Ross knew his resolve would crumble—had the uncomfortable suspicion, in fact, that he’d throw himself at her feet and beg her to join him in the back seat, on the Mustang’s hood—any damned place he could have her. Even though he suspected he’d regret it later.

But instead of leaving, Justine looked at him uncertainly. “You’re sure, Ross? Sure you want to be seen with me? This situation with Savoy’s death—whether I end up blamed or Laney does, your family isn’t going to understand.”

He walked around and opened her door for her, then smiled and gestured toward the front seat. “I’d be honored to be seen with you. Anytime and anywhere.”

Blinking hard, she stared down at the ground between them, staying silent for a span Ross counted out in his own heartbeats.

At ten, she nodded. “Okay, then. Let’s do this.”

Chapter One

In the spider-web of facts, many a truth is strangled.

—Paul Eldridge

The fog slips in on death’s feet, then stoops to drink at the water’s mirrored surface. In the eerie lakeside stillness, the silvery layers mute everything, from the outraged caws of disturbed crows to huge cypress trees grown shaggy with wiry, gray-green moss.

But along the wild shores of the big lake straddling the Texas and Louisiana borders, some things cannot be softened. Not by mist or deepening gloom or the chill rain that patters through the gold-and-blood-hued autumn foliage. Certain sounds, so out of place here, stand out starkly: the slap and rattle of a rope tossed over a stout oak branch, the panicked scrape of human breath, a guttural curse and stumble of footsteps. The harsh cacophony of a struggle quickly silenced.

Quickly silenced but for a single, strangled cry, followed by the rhythmic creaking of the newly burdened tree.

Monday, October 19

Death notifications were the worst part of Sheriff Justine Wofford’s job. Worse even than the state’s efforts to nail her on charges of corruption, the Dogwood Sentinel’s calls for her head, and the county’s demands that she slash her operating budget. Eight months after she’d claimed the remainder of her late husband’s unfilled term, Justine’s professional life was circling the drain, and not even her deputies were bothering to disguise their relief about their boss’s imminent demise. Nor were most inclined to follow orders, including her request for someone to accompany her on this hideous detail.

But the lack of support didn’t matter. What mattered to Justine most was the knowledge that she was about to shatter the fragile shell of a family’s well-being, as her own had been destroyed eleven months before.

Except she was for damned sure going to do this thing right, with all the care and compassion she’d been denied by the young physician who had delivered the news—with one foot out the door—that a sudden stroke had killed Justine’s husband. Inconvenienced by her meltdown, the newly minted doctor had had the nerve to say, “What was he, twenty, twenty-five years older? I would have thought you’d have prepared yourself for something like this.”

“Lou’s sixty. Sixty, that’s all,” she had argued, as if she might talk the little pissant into a different diagnosis. “He’s healthy, active, watches his diet. We still have plenty of time left.”

With his gaze already straying to the nurse urgently flagging him down, the doctor had spared her a pitying look before leaving her alone with her nine-year-old autistic son. Noah could no more comprehend grief than he could decipher hieroglyphics, but he had keened in harmony with his mother’s weeping because he liked the sound.

Yet as her decaying SUV veered onto a dirt road so rough it shook her fillings, Justine counted her blessings. Shocking as it was, Lou’s passing had at least been natural. Not like this atrocity, the third hanging death discovered in the last month in rural Preston County.

“Suicides tend to cluster like that. Not uncommon to see a group of running buddies do themselves in, one by one,” Chief Deputy Roger Savoy had lectured. Not only was the asshole gunning for her office in next year’s election, he still felt it was his place to school her like a rookie.

Which was why it had given her a twisted burst of pleasure to point out a faint set of ligature marks on the man’s untied wrists and a swollen bump behind his head. “Except this one’s no suicide,” she said loudly enough that he couldn’t lay claim to the discovery later.

As Justine jounced over the road’s chuckholes, any lingering satisfaction was swallowed by her growing dread. But in spite of the gut-churning apprehension, she noticed the play of late afternoon’s light that lent deceptive charm to the ramshackle cabins she passed. Near the wooden steps beside a swaybacked trailer home, a trio of flop-eared pups wrestled, and yellow-breasted warblers darted through the underbrush.

She slowed, lowering her window to wave at a pair of skinny white girls whacking the heads off squat brown mushrooms with what looked like rusted golf clubs. Eight and ten, she recalled, with streaming yellow-brown hair and piping laughter that dried up when they saw her. The taller of the two flipped Justine the bird before she and her sister raced inside the small rental cabin that now served as the overcrowded residence of three kids and two adults.

“Make that one adult,” Justine said. She parked beneath the gnarled arms of a primeval oak and stared at the tire swing suspended nearby. Hanging, while the Expedition’s cooling engine ticked like an old clock. When she was finally able to tear her gaze away, she spotted the twitch of a stained curtain and the fierce glares of small faces pressed against the filmy window.

Doubtless the children figured she had come to talk to their grandmother about getting them to school more often, or to report that their daddy was in jail again for public intoxication, disorderly conduct, or any one of the penny-ante misdemeanors that so often left them in the sole care of their half-blind grandmother.

But for all of Caleb LeJeune’s flaws, Justine reminded herself she faced a family that loved him. A family that would forever carry not only her words, but the tone and body language of the message that would irrevocably change their lives.

Steeling herself, she slid out of her truck. She brushed crumbled smears of crime-scene dirt from the dark suit she wore, took another deep breath, then strode toward the cabin’s front door.

She didn’t have to knock before it opened to a swirl of cigarette smoke and a round face braced for bad news. Dee LeJeune asked, “What’s he done now, Sheriff?” in her two-pack-a-day voice.

Before Justine could think of how to answer, Dee flicked her cigarette into the yard and narrowed her gaze. “And don’t be thinkin’ I’m gonna pad the county’s pockets bailin’ him out this time. Not when I can’t hardly feed these kids he’s saddled me with.”

In spite of her harsh words, her fingers skimmed the fine hair of a boy not five years old, and Justine knew Dee would rip the throat out of anyone who came between her and these children.

But it wouldn’t matter in the long haul. In the end, the state would take Caleb’s kids, would more than likely have to split them up.

“Ma’am, may I step inside and have a word?” Justine asked, her throat tightening in anticipation of the cabin’s smoke-and-Pine-Sol reek.

Dee must have heard a new brand of misfortune in Justine’s voice, for with a stricken look, she shooed the grandkids outside. “And mind, you two, you keep a close eye on your brother. Don’t go nowhere near the water, and I mean it.”

Once they’d slunk away, Dee said, “All right, then,” her milky eyes already leaking tears.

By the time Justine stepped back outside, her eyes burned as well, and not only from the odors. She didn’t see the kids around, so she headed back toward her mud-spattered Expedition, only to stop short when she noticed it was listing toward the driver’s side.

“Shit.” Leave it to Caleb LeJeune’s brood to have the gall to puncture her tire. Justine broke into a jog, hustling past the giant oak in the hope of catching the budding delinquents in action.

But what Justine caught instead was a hard crack to the side of her skull. A blow that splashed like black paint over the jewel-bright October day.

With ER physicians almost impossible to replace, Dr. Ross Bollinger’s boss had promised the moon, the stars, and half shifts if he would come back early on a trial basis. So it stood to reason that by seven p.m. on his third day, Ross had already been on for thirteen hours, chewed out for his ignorance of a new record-keeping protocol, and sworn at by a habitual drug seeker. Not to mention having been exposed to vast legions of germs by a pair of preschoolers he’d mentally rechristened Snotzilla and Vomitus Maximus.

In spite of the grueling work he’d done to build back his stamina, he was feeling every one of his thirty-nine years as he scrubbed his hands for the fiftieth time that day.

His favorite RN, Debbie Brown, stopped midstride to look him over, concern in her blue eyes. “You all right?”

Ross grimaced, wishing he had staged a comeback somewhere no one would remember the day he had keeled over. “I could do another twenty-four,” he assured her. An outright lie, but he’d rather drop in his tracks than cop to the slightest hint of fatigue. Especially to the veteran charge nurse who all but ran the emergency department.

“Good,” she said as she adjusted her clip to recapture a loose strand of auburn hair, “because Dr. Fleming’s still AWOL, and EMS just radioed. We have a big one in the works, just a couple of minutes out. Thirty-eight-year-old female, blunt head trauma, unresponsive and bleeding from a laceration to the skull. It’s Sheriff Wofford, Doctor—”

“Justine?” Ross felt a jolt deep inside his chest that had nothing to do with his new implant.

Debbie’s gaze sharpened, and her head tilted slightly. “That’s right,” she said after a brief pause. “You’re the one she always asks for when she brings in her son.”

That was how Ross’s affair with Justine had started this past summer, a little over four months earlier. Another set of stitches and an X-ray for her autistic nine-year-old. Another conversation about ways to keep the boy from harm. And suddenly, stupidly, he’d blurted out that they ought to discuss it over coffee.

Burning fast and hot, the relationship had flamed out only six weeks later. And to Ross’s knowledge, no one else suspected anything had ever happened. Justine had insisted on that from the very start.

A recent widow—her husband had been dead just seven months when it had started—she had insisted on a lot of things, promises he’d broken. Not to hope for more from her. Not to press her on it. Since he’d ended their relationship, not a day had gone by when he didn’t think about her, not even those days when the virus that had slammed him seemed more likely to kill him than relax its icy grip.

Debbie went on to say, “She was injured on duty, so we’ll be ass-deep in badges before we know it.”

Still shaken, Ross nodded, remembering from his Houston trauma center days how protective first responders were when it came to their own.

With no other choice but to set aside his own emotions, he downed an energy drink to keep him going and emerged from the lounge as a pair of EMTs wheeled in the sheriff, limp and bleeding through the gauze that partially covered her loose, dark brown hair. Strapped tightly to a backboard with her neck in a C-collar, the patient was pale, with her shadowed eyes closed.

Justine. God. His adrenaline-steeped brain flashed on images of the way they’d parted, the pain in her dark eyes as she had turned to leave him. Pain that reminded him of his wife’s, when they had argued the last day he had seen her. The last time before the car she’d driven was broadsided, killing her on the spot.

Five years’ worth of guilt washed over grief. Guilt that hit him harder than the virus that had attacked his heart. I can’t let Justine die, too. I have to stop it this time.

One of the EMTs rattled off vitals as he and his partner whisked the stretcher past a handful of waiting patients and the usual check-in at the triage station. “Injury wasn’t witnessed, but deputies found an old golf club lying near her, blood and hair on the business end.”

“A golf club?” A newly graduated nurse gaped, still green enough to be surprised at the damage one human being could inflict upon another.

In the exam room, Ross fell back on training and experience to complete the primary assessment. As he checked the patient’s airway, breathing, and circulation, he called repeatedly, “Sheriff Wofford. Justine, can you hear me?”

No response, but she gasped and pulled away, her eyelids flashing open when he pressed the base of her nail bed to check her response to pain. She attempted speech, too, though the words came out a jumbled murmur.

With a groan, she struggled to turn, and Debbie had a basin out in time to catch the vomit.

“We’re going to need a chest X-ray, then head and spinal CT, CBC, and let’s type and screen,” Ross said as they began the secondary assessment.

“Justine, are you with us?” he repeated. “I need you looking at me.”

No discharge from the ears or nose, and the laceration above her right ear seemed to have mostly clotted. No bruising patterns that would indicate a basilar skull fracture either, and her pupils looked and reacted normally.

Yet she seemed disoriented and lethargic, drifting off as he used a pair of trauma shears and both nurses’ assistance to remove her clothing. Swallowing hard, he tried not to think about the last time he had seen her naked. Tried not to recall the way she had responded when he’d trailed kisses to her navel, laving his tongue in the depression before—

You’re a damned professional. Act like one.

Ross wrenched his mind back on track and completed the head-to-toe check. Finding no further injuries visible and her blood pressure holding steady, he refocused on the head wound.

With years of emergencies under his belt, he had the procedure down cold. Yet the work itself, the adrenaline rush that went hand in hand with trauma, left him spent, reminding him that it had been months since he had done this. But part of his fatigue, he suspected, was the backwash of emotion, the flood of memories of times when he and Justine had laughed and fought and made love with such intensity that the outside world, even their past lives, disappeared.

A half hour later, he was looking at Justine’s CAT scans when Carolyn, the triage nurse came in, a flush creeping from her neckline toward the roots of her cropped gray hair. “There’s getting to be quite a crowd out in the waiting room.” Above her squared-off glasses, her brow settled into well-worn worry grooves. “They’re getting awfully impatient.”

Ross nodded, understanding that, federal privacy laws or not, Justine’s deputies would come down hard on anybody refusing to disclose details of her condition. Which still worried him, though nothing on the films jumped out as serious.

“Family member out there I can talk to? Patient’s father, maybe?” He remembered the man, a weathered rancher type with woolly white brows and a John Wayne-style swagger, who’d come in the last time Noah cut himself.

Ross recalled the warning in Justine’s dark eyes, her unspoken plea that he say nothing, do nothing to give away the fact that the two of them were intimate. The realization that he would never be anything to her but a dirty little secret had been what led to their unraveling, even more than her unwillingness to explain the newspaper’s allegations.

“He’s on his way, I’m told.” Carolyn looked desperate. “If you could…just offer a word on her condition. Deputy’s out there. Roger Savoy. He seems to speak for the rest, and he’s giving me all kinds of attitude.”

Ross glanced back toward his patient. “Why don’t you let them know we’re still waiting for the—”

Justine opened her eyes before speaking, her words so low Ross had to lean in to hear them. “You can tell that bastard Savoy—tell all of them they’re not getting rid of me this easy.”

Ross took her hand and squeezed it, smiling to hear her more coherent. Her contrariness was music to his ears. “I’ll let them know if that’s what you’d like. But first, can you tell me your name?”

“You know—Justine Truitt. And my head’s killing me.”

It was her maiden name, he remembered. He asked her to tell him the day of the week and the current president. She couldn’t recall the first and started out wrong on the latter, but corrected herself quickly before adding, “Come on, Ross. You have something in this place for a headache? And coffee—good Lord, do I need coffee.”

Stroking her hand with his thumb, he ignored his body’s surge of recognition, the relief of homecoming, and reminded himself she was a patient. “Do you know where you are?”

She looked up at him. “My home away from home, right? County Regional. But I usually bring…” She stiffened. “Where’s Noah? Was there an accident? Was he with me in the—”

“He wasn’t with you when you were brought in. You were hurt on duty. Can you tell me what happened?”

Justine shook her head slightly, then squinched her eyes and groaned. “Stomach hurts.”

Debbie, who’d stepped back in the room at Carolyn’s bidding, grabbed a basin, but this time, Justine managed to regroup.

Still, Ross ordered an antinausea medication, as well as something for the pain. “You took quite a knock to the head. Do you remember any of it?”

“I was…driving out to Tanager Trail. I have to tell Mrs. LeJeune her son is…somebody has to let her know Caleb’s dead. I get in a wreck on the way there?”

Caleb LeJeune’s dead? But Ross kept his focus on his patient.

“The EMTs said you were found outside your vehicle,” he said. “I think Charlie mentioned it was Dee LeJeune called it in.”

“Dee…Did I? Does she know? About her son? And the little ones, are they—”

“Right now you need to concentrate on feeling better. We’ll be checking you over and admitting you for observation. You were out cold for quite a while, so we need to watch for—”

“I have to get home right now. My sitter’ll be so pissed if I’m late. She has a really hot date…I think. Was that tonight?” Justine struggled to sit up.

Ross pressed a firm hand to her shoulder. Though she was six feet or close to it, she was in no shape to fight him. “You’re hurt, Justine, and still disoriented. You’re not going anywhere.”

Her nearly black eyes caught his gaze and held it, her expression so intent it made him want to confess that even now, nearly three months after their affair had ended, he dreamed of Justine in vivid detail, reliving the silken glide of her long hair past his erection, the way her dark eyes watched him take her breast into his mouth. Reliving and regretting that he’d left her thinking he had had his fill of her. That he ever could.

“What do you care?” Her tone reminded him he’d been the one to end it. “What do you care if I leave?”

“I’m your doctor.” Ross picked up her chart and pretended to check his notes. Better that than seeing the accusation, the lingering pain in her face. “But even if I weren’t, I’d still—”

“Do you have any idea how tough it is to find qualified caregivers for a boy like Noah?”

He risked frowning at her, thinking she must break down criminals every day at work with that look of hers. “Do you have any idea how tough it is to find a qualified parent? Especially for a boy like Noah, should you, let’s say, end up a drooler if there’s a brain bleed I’ve missed.” He was still waiting for a Dallas radiologist to fax him an official verdict. “Or if you simply walk out of here and drop dead.”

Justine grimaced, splashes of color coming to her cheeks, reminding him of their final argument. But she needed a swift dose of reality, and a blunt delivery drove the risks home faster than a barrage of med-school jargon.

“Point taken, Doctor…” she said after a pause. “And you—how are you doing? I heard about…”

She patted the hospital gown she had been dressed in, just above her left breast, concern in her expression. But there was caution there, too, the wariness of a woman who’d been burned.

“I’m fine now,” he answered easily. “Got your card. Thanks.”

“I wanted to…You left town.” She avoided his eyes.

Uncomfortable, he changed the subject. “Tell me the year again.”

Her face flushed. “I don’t want to do this. I don’t think we should…Is there another doctor on duty?”

“Not right now, unless you want me to call someone in.” When she hesitated, he added, “Come on, Justine. We can be professional about this…or would you rather have the nurses wondering what the problem could be?”

Guilt needled him for using her desire for privacy against her. But he couldn’t stand the thought of passing her off to anyone less experienced with trauma. Mine, something in him whispered, something that refused to recognize he’d given up his right to claim her.

“All right, Dr. Bollinger,” Justine said, and allowed him to complete her neurological assessment. Encouraged by the results, he felt the warm tide of relief spread through him.

“Mind if I go talk to your deputies before they give the triage nurse a breakdown?” he asked her.

“Sure,” she said, “as long as you bring me back some coffee.”

“No coffee,” he told her. “You’re not getting anything besides clear liquids till tomorrow.”

Ignoring her protest, he excused himself, walking down the hall to speak to those gathered in the waiting room. Not the whole department, as he’d been dreading, but a staunch half dozen, all men in uniform, several of whom Ross knew.

They were engrossed in conversation, something about the county budget crisis, but when someone spotted Ross, all six men rose as one, watching him expectantly. Aside from one anxious-looking rookie, the other faces had gone expressionless, a mask required by their chosen profession.

It reminded Ross of the curtain he brought down on his own emotions when delivering grim news. He allowed himself the hint of a smile to assure them this wasn’t one of those times. “Deputy Savoy?”

A man in his mid-fifties eased forward, his full head of dark hair salted at the temples and his blue-eyed gaze as sharp as the creases in his khaki uniform shirt. A couple of inches shy of Ross’s six-four, and slimmer, save for the small paunch at his waist, he extended his right hand and shook Ross’s with an aggressively firm grip.

“Chief Deputy Roger Savoy,” he introduced himself. “I want to thank you, Dr. Bollinger, for seeing to the little lady for us.”

Ross could imagine how well “little lady” went over with Justine. No wonder she’d reacted as she had to Savoy’s name.

Unable to contain himself, the youngest man, Calvin Whittaker, pressed forward, reminding Ross of a retriever with his earnest brown eyes and golden hair. “How’s the sheriff, Doctor? Did she wake up? Is she hurt bad?”

Savoy shot his subordinate a warning look, but Ross amended his plan and spoke to the whole group instead of to the veteran deputy alone. “She’s hurting some, but she’s alert and oriented. We’ll need to keep her overnight as a precaution.”

“She going to be all right, Ross?” asked Larry Crane, an old friend who’d grown into the worst comb-over in East Texas. As soon as the question was out, he faded to the back of the group, proving that some things hadn’t changed since high school.

Ross smiled. “She specifically asked me to tell you all you’re not getting rid of her quite yet.”

Calvin grinned, but Ross couldn’t help noticing looks flickering among the others. Glances that hinted at discomfort, or even disappointment. Part of that made sense to Ross, considering the heated competition to fill the remainder of the late sheriff’s term. Still, he would have expected the deputies to circle the wagons around Justine, now that she’d been injured. “Will she be off the job long?” Savoy asked.

Something in his voice made Ross suspect the deputy was mentally reclaiming his brief role as acting sheriff. Ross suspected, too, that Justine would crawl on hands and knees back to her office to cut his reign short.

“That’s entirely dependent on how she feels,” Ross said. “But I wouldn’t count her out if I were you.”

Savoy’s expression soured. “I’ll need to see her. Gotta question her about what happened. For our investigation.”

“She’s going to be groggy,” Ross warned, feeling unaccountably protective. “And she may not have much to offer about the events leading up to the attack. Retrograde amnesia’s common with head injuries. Sometimes it’s temporary, but other times the memory’s lost forever.”

More eye contact among the deputies, something passing among them that zinged a warning up Ross’s backbone. But the internal friction within the sheriff’s department wasn’t his worry, only Justine’s well-being.

“She’s worried about her son,” he said.

Larry Crane said, “Sheriff won’t need to worry about Noah. My wife Marianne’s on her way to the house. She’ll stay the night and take him with her to school tomorrow morning.”

“I’m sure Sheriff Wofford will appreciate that.” Ross remembered Larry’s wife from school, too, a shy, pretty redhead. Remembered, too, some asshole joking that hooking up with the geek the jocks called “Ichabod” had been the first step toward her career goal of teaching special education.

Ross focused on Savoy. “I need to get to my next patient, but I can walk you back to see the sheriff.”

Savoy nodded and followed.

“Have any idea who hurt her?” Ross asked, angered by the thought of what had happened. And sickened by what could have happened had she been struck in a slightly different spot or with a little more force.

Though he’d half expected his question to be brushed off, Savoy said, “Sheriff’s department’s none too popular along Tanager Trail. Lotta those boys get hauled in pretty regular. The women and kids, too. Black, white—they’re all living on the edge there. I could tell you stories.”

“I’ve seen them,” Ross said, thinking of the broken bones, knife wounds, and overdoses he’d treated…along with sickening cases of neglect that he’d reported. Though Tanager Trail and neighborhoods like it comprised only a small fraction of an overwhelmingly middle-class community, the poor made up a disproportionate percentage of the emergency department’s patient load.

“Or who knows?” Savoy added a few yards short of the curtained area where Justine was resting. “It could’ve been Dee LeJeune herself.”

The deputy’s voice dropped as he went on to say, “Maybe she took the news hard about Caleb. Strung himself up, that boy did, down near the state land at the south end of Bone Lake. Hung himself just like his buddies.”

Ross stared a question. What the hell had he missed during the time he’d spent recovering in Houston?

“You didn’t hear, Doc?” he asked. “We’re having ourselves a rash of suicides. And all three of ’em friends, too. Hart Tyson, Jake Willets, and now Caleb.”

“Hart? And Jake, too?” Ross asked, shock freezing the air in his lungs. “You’re saying Jake Willets is dead, too?”

Jake had been upset about his diagnosis, Ross remembered, but as for suicidal…He thought back to the last shift he’d completed before all hell had broken loose in his own body. Jake had been furious, defiant, but a hell of a long way from giving up that night.

“It’s true,” Savoy said, clearly warming to his role as bearer of bad news. “Fisherman spotted him three weeks back. We figure he was broken up about his buddy Hart. Jake hiked all the way out to the same damned tree to toss his rope. A shame, it was, another young man dying like that.”

Ross felt his bones go leaden, felt the weight of weariness tug at him. Or the weight of knowledge, maybe, the sickening certainty that Jake Willets hadn’t hanged himself. He couldn’t have, not even if his rage had burned off to leave him smothered in the fine ash of despair.

It was on the tip of Ross’s tongue to say so, but there was something off-putting about Roger Savoy’s manner, something that made Ross leery, though he couldn’t put his finger on what troubled him. Besides, Ross wanted to review Willets’s chart to make certain he was remembering correctly. And he wanted most of all to speak to Laney Thibodeaux, Jake’s girlfriend.

And Ross’s own cousin, the youngest daughter of his mother’s twin. A dazzling firecracker of a twenty-two-year-old, in love for the first time.

So why hadn’t he been told about her boyfriend’s death? Why hadn’t Laney called, as she had called him over so many lesser heartaches in the past? Fatherless since the age of three, she’d long since latched onto Ross as a handy substitute.

And over the years, Ross had come to enjoy a role he’d first resisted. Had come to love her as he might someday love a daughter of his own.

Debbie appeared in the hallway and waved a chart for his attention, then whispered, “Another frequent flier. Wants drugs.”

Before Ross could excuse himself, Savoy said, “Those dead boys had themselves a zydeco band. You ever hear tell of ’em?”

Ross nodded, but before he could explain about Laney, Savoy was talking again.

“I’m not much for running the joints myself, more of a family man. But I understand they drew a good crowd when they played weekends at the Tin Roof.” Disdain tinged Savoy’s voice at the mention of the latter, a rough-edged dance hall west of Dogwood. “Hear they’ve been traveling all over the state lately. Got themselves invited to some big festival in Austin.”

“They’re good,” Ross said, and not simply out of loyalty. “My cousin’s the lead singer.”

And not only the lead singer, he realized as his stomach knotted, but the last surviving member of a band called Hangman’s Bayou.

Chapter Two

One good thing about music, when it hits—you feel no pain.

—Bob Marley

A simple thing, the tying of a slipknot. Easy and expedient. But for all that, there’s something lacking in it. History, maybe, and I’m not just talking about a bunch of redneck fools in sheets, trying to shove terror up the ass of progress.

A hangman’s knot takes more practice to master. Practice to get the N shape just right. Practice to figure out how many coils you like. For my taste, eight’s the perfect number—enough to make it good and strong without getting too unwieldy.

Trouble is, your practice has to be in secret, for just the sight of this knot causes strange reactions. Fear in some, hate in others. Enough hate to break folks out in a rash of bloodshed. But a lot of others get excited—world’s full of fucking rubberneckers out looking for a show.

But to give them their due, there’s hardly any better spectacle than the sight of a grown man led as helpless as a little child to the waiting noose. Only thing I can think of any finer would be a woman’s hanging, but I haven’t tried that…

Or I haven’t tried it yet. Not yet, but perhaps soon.

The ball is in her court now.

(I hear the creak of your rope, stretched taut. See one sandal, tumbling, the second catching on a toe.)

Justine started awake as the curtain zipped back noisily. Before she could complain, she heard: “Doing all right there, Sheriff?”

Stripped of her usual defenses, she responded to Savoy’s voice with a reflexive snarl that would have done Pavlov’s dogs proud.

“Well, at least you’re smiling.” He sounded positively cheerful. “That’s more than I’d do if somebody laid a five iron upside my head.”

“Laid a…a what?” She understood his good mood all too well, but his words floated in the air like pieces of a jigsaw, the most critical of which spun out of reach. Or maybe she was the one floating, thanks to the medication. Feeling vulnerable, she pulled up the sheet to cover her thin, cotton gown.

“A golf club,” Roger told her, the black hole of his mouth oozing blobs of sound. “Someone hit you with a golf club.”

A golf club? That couldn’t have been what he’d said. She blinked and squinted, struggling to focus.

“Looks like somebody might’ve laid in wait. When you walked past the spot where they were hiding, whack—right to the side of your head.”

“They fingerprint you yet?” Justine tried to laugh, but the sound caught in her throat like a hunk of dry bread.

Savoy stared at her as if he had been the one struck.

“I was kidding, Roger,” she said. Sort of.

He smiled briefly, looking as green as she felt. “We are—um—we’ve got somebody looking at prints on the club as we speak. Deputy Caruthers says he’s finding plenty, but the larger ones are pretty smudged.”

Frowning at the news, Justine changed the subject. “Who’s watching Noah right now?”

Without a single window or clock in sight, she had no idea what time of day it was, but the stubble shadowing Savoy’s jaw hinted that it had been hours since she’d left the LeJeune scene by the lake.

“Marianne Crane went over,” he said. “Larry says she’s got you covered.”

“Thank God for both of them.”

“And your father’s on his way, too,” Savoy added.

“I wish you hadn’t worried him about this,” she said, more sharply than she had intended. In truth, Justine was grateful that her dad would come at all. Or maybe surprised was the correct word, considering their last conversation. Ed Truitt, the legendary, longtime sheriff of Morton County, had labeled as “bullshit” her claim that she had no idea how forty thousand dollars’ worth of wire transfers from an offshore company had landed in her bank account this past spring.

She felt sick to her soul recalling the disappointment in his dark eyes. Felt even more disappointed in herself for lying. To him. To everyone. But what else could she do?

“The man wants to be here for you and Noah,” Savoy said solemnly. “Any father would.”

Justine imagined that was half right about her dad. Her father loved Noah, at least, unequivocally.

Had it been that way for her once, when she was younger? Innocent? She reached for a pleasant memory but found only another patch of quicksand.

Roger shuffled his feet and asked her, “Do you remember anything about what happened this afternoon? The doctor said you might—”

“I was on my way to Dee LeJeune’s.” Justine exchanged a festering, old worry for something more pressing.

“Dee knows, Justine. She said you told her how Caleb killed himself.” Roger studied her, his blue eyes narrowing.

“I told her…what?” Justine struggled toward the recollection. Her head throbbed, protesting the effort until she gave it up.

“She said you sat down with her, held her hand,” Savoy said with a rare note of approval, probably due to the fact that he considered hand-holding an appropriate female jurisdiction.

Justine closed her eyes and exhaled, relieved she’d handled that, at least. “So who hit me, then?”

“I was hoping you’d have some idea. Any thoughts on that?”

“I…” She fought harder, only to sink deeper in the muck. “I guess I’ll be relying on your investigative skills. Because I can’t remember a damned thing.”

Roger puffed up a bit and straightened, proud of what even Justine grudgingly conceded was a well-earned reputation. It was the second most important reason she hadn’t fired him.

“I talked to those LeJeune kids,” he said. “They claimed they didn’t see a thing, but I’m not so sure about that. Could be somebody they knew, some loser from the neighborhood who saw his chance to even the score for getting himself arrested,” Savoy said. “But we’ll get him, sheriff. Don’t you worry. More than likely he’s already running his mouth, bragging to his buddies, who’ll turn in his sorry ass the minute we put up a reward.”

“You’re offering a reward?”

“Damned straight we are.” Roger’s words were heated, his expression fierce. “Can’t have criminals thinking they can get away with attacking our people. The Crime Stoppers program is putting up the money.”

“Sounds good.”

“You just leave it all to me,” the deputy said. “Rest up as long as you need. You gave us a big scare today, and we’re all worried about your health—”

“About this latest hanging,” Justine interrupted, in no mood to listen to false sympathy. “Do you think this is the last of them? Or should we be worried there might be more? What about the singer? Laney Thibodeaux’s the last of the group left, right?”

More clearly than today’s scene, she remembered a conversation with Savoy a few days earlier about what experts called “suicide clusters” and his theory that the Willets hanging had been related to that of the victim’s friend, Hart Tyson. Justine had been skeptical, thinking the “suicide-as-contagion” phenomenon was most often reported in hysteriaprone high schoolers, but the death of a third member of Hangman’s Bayou seemed to prove the deputy had been onto something.

Savoy shrugged. “Maybe it’s already over. Hanging’s a man’s way out. Too violent for the ladies.”

Though statistically, he was right, Justine wasn’t convinced. “You think they could’ve had some kind of weird pact? Like if they didn’t make it big by a certain deadline, they’d go the way of their band’s name?”

Had the members of Hangman’s Bayou imagined that such deaths would immortalize their music? God help her and her department if some reporter from one of the network affiliates caught wind of the connection and decided the deaths would make for an eerie Halloween story on the evening news.

The deputy’s gaze snapped to Justine, as if her idea—or the fact that she had had one—took him by surprise. “I’m not sure any of ’em was serious enough to come up with something like that. Hell, LeJeune spent as much of his time sleeping off benders in the jail as he did playing. And the other two weren’t much better.”

“I wouldn’t exactly lump Tyson and Willets in with Caleb LeJeune,” Justine countered. Neither had been in any trouble outside of some garden-variety high school foolishness back in the day.

Savoy crossed his arms, his expression unhappy. “We’ll send someone over, have a talk with that girl.”

He snorted, adding wryly, “I remember her now. The sweet young thing Deputy Miller called a spicy little lagniappe when she came to the office.”

“Miller’d better watch his damned mouth,” Justine shot back, though she couldn’t decide whether Paul’s calling Laney “a little something extra” was any more offensive than Roger’s “sweet young thing.” Both offended Justine, steeped as she was in memories of the sad day she’d broken the news of Laney’s boyfriend’s death. “Miss Thibodeaux’s grieving for a loved one. She should be accorded the same respect you’d give to any—”

“Paul didn’t mean anything by it,” Roger said defensively, protective as always of the old-boy status quo. And clueless as ever that sexism was something more than a figment of her imagination.

He’d hated her ever since she’d marched in, an outsider whose experience had been in a distant county, and “stolen” a job he had assumed would fall to him. A job he had been working toward for nearly thirty years. A job he’d cost himself by ruffling too many feathers. The wrong feathers.

Sucks to be you, Savoy, she thought before she asked him if he’d mind the store until she recovered. “I don’t expect I’ll be out long,” she said, despite the thumping pain in her head. “Maybe just a day or two, but someone needs to call Miss Thibodeaux back in and reinterview her about her fellow band members. Someone with the experience and judgment to tell if she knows more than she’s been saying, or if she could be a suicide risk herself.”

His brows rising, Savoy scrubbed a hand over his mouth in a clear attempt to cover his surprise…and pleasure. Probably crafting a new campaign slogan for their rematch a year from next month: Experience and Judgment. “I’d be glad to take over,” he said.

“Not take over,” she corrected. Not yet, anyway. “Act on my authority. Report to me personally before each shift for instruction.”

His hand dropping, he stared at her, his contempt unmasked. Naked. Brutal. It was a stark reminder of the most important reason she hadn’t fired the annoying SOB.

She preferred to keep her enemies close at hand, where she could watch them.

Before Ross caught sight of Kenneth Fleming in his white coat, he heard the charge nurse’s scathing, “Fashionably late doesn’t cut it in this ER, Doctor. Especially not with Dr. Bollinger just back from being out sick.”

“I’m fine,” Ross put in firmly.

“Sorry, Ross. I can explain,” Kenneth said, staring past Debbie at Ross, who was finishing a chart at the counter while the waiting room remained clear.

Kenneth, an emergency room doctor in his early forties, looked flustered, his thin, gray-threaded hair disheveled, his lab coat rumpled, and his small hands jerking their way through nervous gestures. A good sign, since Kenneth, already on probation following drug rehab, should be worried. Ross would have been more concerned had he dragged in looking cool, a sure sign he’d been hitting the painkillers once again.

“So what happened?” Ross crossed his arms over his chest to face the prodigal.

Kenneth looked up, his chubby cheeks and mottled flush making him look disconcertingly like a child explaining a missed curfew to his parents. “I was running the kids back to my ex’s in Fort Worth, and on the way back, my damned front wheel fell off, the right one. Can you believe that?”

Blue eyes blazing, Debbie slid Ross a look that said she didn’t. Waving off the excuse, she said, “I’m taking my break now.”

As she strode off muttering, Kenneth protested, looking to Ross for reassurance. “But it’s true this time. I swear it. I’ve even got the tow truck driver’s card here. You can call him. He’ll vouch for me.”

He whipped a dog-eared rectangle from his pocket and passed it to Ross. “The driver said something about the lug nuts being sheared off. He thought maybe they got overtightened last week when I had that front-end work done. I can tell you, my mechanic’s going to get a call from me as soon as…”

He fell quiet when Ross raised a hand as he inspected the card, which had a greasy thumbprint and the name Carlos penned on it in blue ink. Neither of which proved a thing.

“I’ve got receipts out in the glove box,” Fleming added. “One for the tow, and another for the car I rented.”

“Forget it,” Ross said, “but it’s close to midnight. You should have called so I could’ve gotten somebody to cover.”

Fleming had a long, involved story about a dead cell battery and a lost charger, but Fleming always had a story. His life was an endless series of mishaps, missteps, and minor-league dramas. Ross had learned that months earlier, around the time Kenneth flunked his second drug test.

“That’s all right,” Ross said, more interested in checking on his cousin than wasting what little time he had before his next shift listening to excuses. “I’m taking off now. If you’re definitely okay.”

He followed up the comment with a hard look that had Fleming raising his hands in surrender.

“I’m great, really. Clean as the day I was born.” His face grew even redder. “You can test me if you want to. Blood, urine, whatever you want. Right now.”

“I’ll leave that decision up to Tremont,” Ross said, naming the head of the department, the family friend who’d talked him into coming back from Houston after Anne’s death nearly five years earlier. The same man who’d convinced him to come back this week.

“Listen, Ross. I’m really sorry. If I had realized it was you on duty, so soon after…” Fleming patted his own chest. “How are you anyway?”

Tired after a long day. Preoccupied with thoughts of Justine and worried about why Laney isn’t answering her phone.

“Heart’s just great,” Ross answered, wishing he could roll back time to those days, only a few months earlier, when Fleming would have pumped him for information about one of any number of gorgeous women seen on Ross’s arm. Amused by the irony of his reputation as a ladies’ man, Ross had never volunteered the information that all of the women were members of his vast network of relations.

And that the one woman he’d actually been sleeping with refused to be seen with him.

Still, it was a hell of a lot easier on a man’s ego to be looked up to than pitied. For a moment, Ross considered inviting Kenneth to join his morning workouts, but there was no way Fleming could keep up with the pace Ross had been setting these last few weeks as he steadily rebuilt his stamina.

“Why don’t you go home and get some rest now.” Kenneth gestured magnanimously toward the door. Through its glass, security lights strove vainly to keep the night at bay. “I’ll hold over for you. Cover the first half of your shift tomorrow.”

“I’ll take you up on that, Ken. Just don’t expect me to cover any more of your screwups in return.”

At his car, Ross stripped off his lab coat and pulled on a denim jacket against the evening chill. Late or not, he meant to track down Laney.

He started out by driving to Aunt Ava’s, where Laney had been living, the last he’d heard. Though not nearly as grand as Ross’s mother’s home, the handsome Craftsman bungalow belonging to her twin sister was located in the historic area near downtown’s antique and gift shops. When he pulled up at the curb, Ross found the gray-and-white house dark. The gas lamppost was unlit, too, though it normally burned all night.

With both his aunt and mother out of town, Ross made a mental note to check the lamp on his day off. Hitting one of the speed-dial numbers on his cell phone, he climbed out of the old convertible. “Come on, Laney,” he muttered as he opened the painted iron gate and let himself into the yard. But the phone in his aunt’s house went unanswered.

Surely, in a town as small as Dogwood, the news of Caleb LeJeune’s death had quickly reached her. But the question was, had Laney barricaded herself inside to weep over the loss of the band she’d referred to as “her life” or gone to one of her sisters’, cousins’, or friends’ houses so as not to be alone?

Ross puffed out a breath, frustrated by the thought of a long night spent tracking her down—not to mention the anthill he’d be kicking by alarming his drama-prone relations. Please be inside, Laney, he thought as he climbed the porch’s stairs and knocked at the front door.

No one answered, but through the lace sheer covering the sidelight window, he spotted a sight that made his heart jerk painfully in his chest…

Silhouetted by a dim light shining from the rear of the house, a rope dangled in the kitchen doorway. Suspended above one of his aunt’s dining chairs, the hangman’s noose gaped like an empty socket, waiting for its neck.

Chapter Three

Southern trees bear a strange fruit, Blood on the leaves and blood at the root…

—From “Strange Fruit,” Abel Meeropol,
in a poem later set to music and
performed by Billie Holliday

“Laney,” Ross shouted, praying he could stop her as he fumbled for the key Aunt Ava had given him. It took him three tries to fit it into the lock and turn it, an interval he measured in the wild gallop of his own pulse, the shallow burn of his breath.

The front door swung open and he rushed inside, his hand flipping on a light switch as he repeated his cousin’s name.

Sound came at him from two opposite directions: an incongruously raucous burst of song—accordion and fiddle with a washboard scrape of rhythm—tumbling down the hallway, along with the quieter but unmistakable creeeeak-click of the back screen door closing.

Ross charged past the dangling noose, knocking the chair onto its side as he raced into the kitchen. With his mind on the string of suicides, he thought of nothing but catching Laney before she had the chance to do herself harm, most likely after listening to recordings of her late band.

His gut dropped like a stone when he heard her voice behind him.

“What are you doing, Ross?”

He wheeled around to see his cousin, who stood trembling as she stared wide-eyed at the noose. With her wavy, dark brown hair sliding out of a long ponytail, her face splotchy, and her lashes clumped with tears, she wore sweatpants with a T-shirt—and clutched a wooden bat in her hands.

“Is this some kind of sick joke?” Always a small woman, barely topping five feet, she sounded shaken-up, bewildered.

“Someone was in here,” he said, gesturing toward the laundry room. “I saw that rope through the front window. When I came in, I heard the door shut.”

He hurried to the laundry room as Laney flipped on lights. Though the screen door had closed, the inner door, normally left locked, stood ajar.

As he started through it, his cousin gripped his arm. “Don’t go out there.”

Taking the bat from her hands, he stepped out onto the back steps, where he scanned the yard for any movement. But without the aid of streetlights, it was even darker out here than in the front yard. And thick bushes, his aunt’s prized crape myrtles and oleanders, offered far too many hiding places for anyone who might be lurking.

“I’m calling nine-one-one.” Laney spoke to him through the screen door, a cordless phone in her hand. “Please, Ross. Come inside. Anyone who would do this…” She glanced back toward the kitchen, her gaze fixed on the noose. “They wouldn’t hesitate to hurt you. And I couldn’t…I couldn’t stand to see you murdered. Like all the rest of them.”

Tuesday, October 20

“This is garbage, bullshit.” Justine’s chief deputy, Roger Savoy, stalked the hospital room as he spoke, walking back and forth through a shaft of morning sunlight and gripping a Styrofoam cup of coffee so hard, Justine half expected it to explode at any moment. “You wait. It’s going to turn out this is nothing but a hoax.”

She had seen Roger this agitated on only one prior occasion, when the recount she’d demanded swung the election in her favor.

“Stand still and explain. Please.” Though Justine’s doctor had cleared her to go home as soon as the paperwork was finished, her brain felt wrapped in woolen blankets, and pain shafted through her skull when she tried to follow Roger with her eyes. At least she was dressed to leave the hospital, in the jeans, chambray blouse, and Western boots her father had picked up from her home. A dark suit might have lent her more authority, but she felt a hell of a lot more in control than she had in the butt-baring cotton gown she’d worn overnight.

Mercifully, Roger stopped his pacing. “I think that girl hung the noose up there herself, just so she could holler ‘hate crime.’”

After moving from the bed to a chair, Justine skewered him with her most incredulous look. “Why would Laney Thibodeaux want to do a thing like that?”

Savoy’s expression soured. “So she could get the FBI in here, tromping all over our investigation.”

“Because…?” Justine prompted.

“Because she claims there’s a conspiracy, of all the damned things. Says those suicides weren’t suicides at all, but some kind of elaborate scheme to shut down her group.”

“I wasn’t aware the dance-hall and party-band circuit was so cutthroat,” Justine said wryly. “But what makes you think she set this up?”

“Aside from the way she acted, there was no sign of forced entry,” Roger said, “even though she swears she had the doors locked.”

“So why didn’t she hear this break-in?”

“Back in her bedroom listening to music in the dark is what she told me. Listening to recordings of her band and imagining all sorts of craziness. Acted suspicious, if you ask me. Right off, said something about a noose being an instrument of intimidation to a person of color.”

Justine, who hadn’t grown up in Dogwood and sometimes missed the small town’s subtext, didn’t follow. “She considers herself black?”

Justine had interviewed the singer to determine whether Jake Willets had seemed especially despondent after his friend Hart’s death. Laney Thibodeaux was a tiny thing, with long, dark hair and striking hazel eyes that held a kittenish appeal. Neither her facial features nor her complexion made her racial makeup obvious. Because both Laney’s late boyfriend and her mother had been white, Justine—if she’d thought of it at all—had made the same assumption about Laney.

“She says her daddy was half black and the teachers around here made her check that box her whole life. So she’s damned well checking it right now, using it to try and force us to come up with another explanation for her friends’ deaths. Because she can’t accept the true one.”

As little as Justine liked Roger, she trusted his instincts on this. It did indeed sound as if Laney Thibodeaux might be playing them, especially since she hadn’t said a single word earlier to indicate she doubted the medical examiner’s ruling. The way Justine remembered it, Laney had blamed herself for her boyfriend’s death, had cried over how she might have stopped him if she’d only paid closer attention to Jake’s mood.

Had Caleb LeJeune’s death sent her plummeting into the realm of shadowy conspiracy? Unhinged by guilt and grief, did she indeed find murder easier to handle than a rash of suicides?

Justine shivered as the fine hairs rose behind her neck. “Is she back home now?” If Laney had chosen to stay there, after the alleged break-in and what she claimed was a terrorist threat against her, she was either uncommonly brave or flatout lying. “Maybe I could stop by for a chat on my way home.”

Neither Justine’s family doctor nor her father would think much of the idea, but she wanted to get her own read on this situation.

“We have her at headquarters right now. She got a little out of hand when she figured we weren’t going for her story. Started getting hysterical and…well, she pushed Deputy Baker a little.”

Justine closed her eyes. “Tell me you haven’t charged her with anything.”

She could all too clearly imagine her department linked to news stories reporting that they’d arrested a grieving, and highly photogenic, mixed-race “victim” of an alleged hate crime. Such a story would go nationwide in a heartbeat, with all too many predisposed to believe the South still harbored lynch mobs.

Both the FBI and protesters would swoop in, exactly as they had in the now-infamous locales of Vidor in East Texas and Jena, Louisiana. It wouldn’t matter that two of the three men found hanging here had been white. That detail would be lost in the rush to paint their town, which depended upon its reputation as a friendly tourist destination, as uniformly racist.

On a personal level, Justine saw another risk as well: that Ross Bollinger would try to intervene on his cousin’s behalf. Last night, Justine’s injury might have trumped the bitterness between them, but with Laney under fire, it would all come roaring back.

“Don’t worry. I knew better,” Roger assured her. “I explained to Miss Thibodeaux’s cousin that we’re keeping her for her own safety.”

“Her cousin,” Justine repeated. “You mean the doctor, the one who treated me?”

“That’s the one. And we have the girl in an interview room, not a holding cell. I’m heading in to interview her, if she’s calmed down.”

“Thanks, Roger.” Maybe losing the election had finally taught him to cover his own ass, along with the department’s. “Still, maybe I should come in and—”

A tapping at the door interrupted, but instead of her father returning with her discharge papers, as Justine expected, Ross Bollinger stepped inside the room.

At the sight of him, Justine’s stomach clutched. Not so much because of his cleft-chinned good looks and the linebacker physique that struck her every time she saw him, but because this was the first time she had seen him looking so tired and disheveled, with his sandy-colored hair mussed and the collar of his untucked polo-style shirt awry. No white coat this time, and he looked furious, as she had never seen him.

“You people have my cousin in custody,” Ross began, “for no reason whatsoever.”

You people. Justine gritted her teeth, and Roger bristled, as he was all too prone to do. But before he could say something unfortunate, Justine stood and intervened.

“Chief Deputy Savoy was just telling me,” she said, “how he had Miss Thibodeaux brought in for her own safety. We’re taking her suspicions seriously, and we’re especially concerned about last night’s break-in at her home.”

Ross locked gazes with her, clearly trying to discern whether he was being bullshitted. Justine, who could bullshit in her sleep if need be, didn’t bat an eye. And why should she, simply because she’d given in to weakness, to loneliness, with this man for a short time?

So what if he’d hurt her when he’d abruptly told her it was over? Wasn’t she the one who’d set the ground rule, No regrets?

Ross looked away first, turning his glare on Savoy. “That’s right, Deputy. It was a break-in, and not some setup my cousin threw together for attention.”

“No one’s saying that.” Justine raised her palms in a bid for peace.

“He said it, last night,” Ross insisted, “or he might as well have.”

“I’m sorry if you got that impression, Doctor.” Savoy tried for sincerity, but Justine heard resentment. Resentment of the political realities that forced him to back away from his gut instinct.

She heard something else as well: that he’d already lost his objectivity in this case. That he’d automatically discounted Thibodeaux’s suspicions.

“Impression, my ass,” Ross said. “You might as well have called my cousin a liar to her face. I’ll vouch for her, and if that’s not good enough, my whole family will tell you Laney’s never been the type to—”

“Dr. Bollinger—Ross,” Justine cut in, keeping her tone firm rather than trying to compete in volume. “We’re all feeling the impact of these deaths, the whole community. And I can only imagine how your cousin must be feeling. These were her friends, people she worked with every day. And she told me she’d been living with Jake Willets.”

Surprise registered in Ross’s gray eyes, as if he hadn’t known his cousin had been shacked up with Jake in his apartment. But it took the doctor only a moment to regroup. “So what’re you implying? That Laney’s so grief-stricken, she would pretend to break into her own house and—”

“Miss Thibodeaux wouldn’t need to bother breaking into her mother’s home,” Roger interrupted, displaying the condescending attitude that had likely cost him the election. “She’s got a key, the same as you do.”

Bollinger glared a challenge. “So are you accusing her or me now?”

“No one’s accusing you of anything.” Justine shot her deputy a warning look. “Or anyone else, either. Not until we have all the facts.”

“My aunt gave me the key”—Ross shot Savoy another dark look, as if daring him to contradict—“so I could help keep things up around the house. I know my aunt’s place inside and out, the shed, the garage, the attic. And I’ve never seen any rope like that one on the premises.”

“Looked brand-new to me,” Savoy said. “Still kinked from the package.”

Bollinger fixed Savoy with another annoyed look. “So you’re thinking my cousin went out and bought a new rope and somehow managed to tie a perfect hangman’s knot. How many young women do you think even know how to do that?”

“How many young women sing for a band named Hangman’s Bayou?” Roger fired back. “Which might’ve given her—hell, it could’ve given the whole bunch more than a passing interest in noose making. Noose making and noose history. Maybe she used that know-how to make us believe this ridiculous conspiracy theory of hers.”

“You’re the one who’s being ridiculous.” Stalking toward the door, Ross said, “My old college roommate’s a criminal defense attorney down in Houston. I’m calling him right now.”

“Roger, I need you to step outside for a few minutes,” Justine said. “I want to speak to Dr. Bollinger alone.”

“You’re hurt,” Savoy told her. “You shouldn’t be worrying about this. I’d expect the doc here to know that better than anybody.”

He sounded almost protective, Justine marveled. If she hadn’t known for a fact how he felt about her, she would have been impressed.

“It’s all right, Roger. But if you see my dad out there, would you mind asking him if he could hold up for a few minutes?” Knowing her father, he’d be swapping law enforcement war stories with Savoy in no time.

“I’ll be standing right outside. That I promise you.” Roger leveled a meaningful gaze at Ross.

As the door closed behind the deputy, the testosterone in the air thinned noticeably, and Ross had the grace to look contrite. “He’s right. I’m sorry, Justine. I was so worried over Laney that I barged in here and—”

“No need to apologize,” Justine said, eager to defuse this situation. “I want to know what’s happening. With the case. With you, Ross.”

As if she’d struck a nerve, he winced. Which seemed strange to Justine, considering that he had been the one who had refused to settle for a strictly physical affair.

The memory of his rejection still stung, enough to make her clarify, “You’re still the only ER doctor my son will let near him.”

He sighed audibly. “Let’s start this conversation over. First of all, how are you feeling? Stitches holding all right? I see you’re dressed to leave, but—”

“Dr. Sheffield made me promise to avoid break dancing, bronc busting, and head butting any suspects for the next few weeks,” she said dryly. “It was a tough call, but I caved, so he’s letting me go hold down the cushions on my sofa for a few days. But you’re not here to talk about me.”

This time, the pain in his eyes was unmistakable. “I’m really glad to hear you’re improving.”

“Good to know you weren’t rooting for things to go the other way. Considering how we left off.”

He shook his head. “You know me way better than that, Justine.”

She nodded. He was a good man. Smart and funny, kind and sexy—the thought kicked loose a memory of his gray eyes looking up at her as he’d kissed his slow way from her hip down to her thigh.

God, she missed that. Missed the way he’d shattered the hard knot of tension lodged inside her. Missed him, beyond the sex and the warmth of physical affection, and way beyond the fact that he had family money and a surname that was golden in this town.

He’d be a fool to tarnish his reputation by hitching his wagon to some train wreck of a woman. She’d done him a damned favor insisting that they stick to the original plan and keep things quiet.

Never taking his eyes from her, he said, “I really regret the way things—”

“I wanted to tell you,” she broke in, afraid to let him finish, to leave herself open to more pain, “I don’t know what I’d do without Gwen. She’s really good with Noah, too. Must run in the family.”

“My sister? She’s your babysitter?”

“She didn’t tell you?” Justine looked surprised. “I hired her about six weeks ago. Felt like I’d won the child-care lottery, getting someone so qualified to work for what I can afford. Especially a Bollinger.”

Everyone in town knew that, like Ross and their other sister, Gwen Bollinger had a generous trust fund, a legacy from their timber-baron grandfather.

Ross shrugged. “She likes feeling useful.”

“Guess that runs in your family, too.”

At the compliment, he blew out an audible breath, his expression making Justine pray he wouldn’t bring up their relationship again. Not when the wound was finally healing.

There was a hesitation before he thanked her and steered the subject back to his cousin. “You don’t really think Laney hung that rope herself, do you? If you had seen the shock in her eyes—hell, for a second, she thought I was playing some kind of sick joke.”

“Not very funny, if someone was joking,” Justine said.

“Not a damned bit.”

“I don’t like to prejudge, not before I’ve had the chance to talk to Laney. But you and I both know she could’ve found out how to tie a hangman’s knot in next to no time if she decided that was the best way to get the department to reexamine her friends’ deaths. She has access to a computer, doesn’t she?”

“Sure. She’s using my old laptop.”

“If I could maybe get a look at it…” Justine would love to take a peek at the search history, or better yet, check out Laney’s e-mails.

But Ross was shaking his head, his expression hardening. “So you can try to dig up incriminating information on my cousin?”

“So we can rule her out.”

“Sorry, Justine,” he said. “There’s no way I’m letting you go fishing like that—or letting you talk Laney into it.”

Irritated, Justine frowned, knowing there wasn’t evidence for a subpoena. Not much chance of getting Laney’s voluntary cooperation, either, since Ross would surely warn her against it.

“Have you talked to your cousin lately?”

“Hardly at all these past few months.” He shrugged. “I’ve been at my sister Cherie’s down in Houston. That’s where my specialist is.”

She wanted to ask about his illness, since Gwen, who had no idea of Justine’s involvement with Ross, had offered up few details. But Justine bit her tongue, reminding herself she’d lost that right, that she’d given it up without even a whimper and had worked hard to convince herself it was for the best.

“It’s possible, I suppose…” Ross added.

“What’s possible?”

He tried to smile, though his eyes looked unhappy. “I’m guessing things must have been kept from me. Things my mother and my aunt thought might upset me. I gave them a real scare, I’m told, and my mom, especially, can be…”

“A mom?” Justine finished for him, imagining her terror if something suddenly went wrong with Noah’s heart. Remembering her devastation after her husband’s stroke.

The thought drove deeper a thorn of grief, a buried reminder of the suddenness of Lou’s death. A reminder of the fragility of life. Suddenly, she wanted to sit down, to rest, or to get home to hug the son she’d come so close to leaving motherless. Orphaned, really, since her first husband, the asshole who’d fathered Noah, had apparently gone into the Deadbeat Dad Protection Program within a month of their son’s diagnosis.

What she didn’t want, had no damned business wanting, was a renewed connection to yet another man who could leave her in the lurch.

His expression sheepish, Ross waved off whatever he’d been about to say about his mother and confessed, “I had no idea Laney was living with Jake Willets. Her mother probably pitched a fit about it, had the whole family in an uproar, but I never heard a word. And I had no idea until last night that Jake and Hart were dead, to say nothing of Caleb.” With a shake of his head, he added, “I came home only a few days back, and my mom and aunt just left for a two-week cruise to celebrate their birthday.”

Justine shook off her discomfort, reminded her sluggish brain to focus on the job. “Your cousin’s claiming racial intimidation,” she said bluntly. “Are you aware of that?”

Ross looked flustered and off balance. “I heard what she said last night, but listen, Laney was upset. She just wants this break-in and these hanging deaths taken seriously, that’s all.”

“They will be,” Justine promised. “I’ll review the ME’s reports and follow up on LeJeune’s death. But I have to warn you, we’ll be looking at every possibility, which includes checking Jenkins Hardware and the Wal-Mart to see if anyone remembers somebody picking up a length of rope lately. We get really lucky, we’ll match up an eyewitness with security video.”

“You’re going to be flashing around a picture of my cousin, aren’t you? Trying to prove your deputy was right about her.”

“As I said, it makes good sense to rule her out,” Justine said, taking her best let’s-be-reasonable tone.

“Then you’ll have to admit it makes good sense for someone to represent Laney’s interests. Especially since I have good reason to believe that Jake Willets’s death was murder.”

“What are you talking about?” Justine demanded. “If you have pertinent information—”

“I’ll be sure to stop by the sheriff’s office with it. But not until I’ve spoken with that lawyer friend of mine.”

Chapter Four

There is no such thing as a minor lapse of integrity.

—Tom Peters, from Thriving on Chaos: Handbook for a Management Revolution

Hanging as a punishment goes way back in this sad world. Way farther than the place those old Clint Eastwood movies show you, where they used to string up horse thieves in the Wild West. Farther than the British colonists, who cried out, “Witch!” then had themselves a big time stoning, drowning, and—you guessed it—bagging the heads of odd, half-deaf old ladies and pushing them stumbling up the steps.

(Did you stumble, on that last step? Did you close your eyes, dear?)

An interested party could keep following the thing right across the Atlantic. Follow it straight back to England, to the times when they called the noose a “collar.” This pop-eyed death has always been a real crowd pleaser, way back to the wild tribes who overran the Roman Empire.

And farther still, if you check out the Old Testament in the Good Book sitting in your church pew come next Sunday. You don’t believe me? Get a load of the seventh chapter of the Book of Esther, where the king says, “Hang him thereon.”

It even mentions gallows. Right there in the Bible, with all the rest of God’s good gifts.

Then was the king’s wrath pacified.

You study on that part, especially. Right there at the tail end of the tenth verse. And then you think of all the wrath left smoldering inside you. All the rage you still have left to pacify.

Justine’s father was shaking his head as he walked into the room, his silver Stetson in hand, along with several papers. At the sight of him, Justine felt awash in gratitude for his presence, at least until he opened his mouth and spoiled the moment.

“I see you’ve charmed another one of your constituents.” He looked back over his shoulder, in the direction Ross Bollinger had taken. “And a doctor at that. Don’t look for any contributions from your local medical professionals for your reelection campaign.”

“Hand me that notepad.” Staring up from the chair, Justine gestured toward the bedside table. “I want to take down this advice: ‘Give free pass to any potential contributors.’ Or is it just the ones with money?”

Still a tall and hearty man at the age of sixty-six, her father raked his hand through his thick shock of white hair and fixed her with sharp brown eyes. “Now, Justine, I thought you were the family expert on that sort of arrangement.”

Her throat constricted at the insult, but she wouldn’t cry. She couldn’t, so she slammed him with her fiercest look, one side of her mouth ticking downward. “If that comment’s the kind of help you’re offering, maybe you should go home now. Hunt down Bambi’s mother or watch some football with your buddies. I can get along without you. I have.”

“Hell, girl, you’re awfully cantankerous this morning.” Her father gestured toward the gauze square taped to the side of her head. “You sure that golf club didn’t knock something loose up there?”

“You sure you haven’t taken up the game?”

He chuckled, and his tone softened. “That’ll be the day. C’mon, Chili Pepper. Let’s get you home and get you tucked up on the sofa. Then I’ll make you some pancakes with extra syrup. You still like pancakes, don’t you?”

Typical, she thought a few minutes later, as he opened the passenger door to his loaded-out black pickup for her. Her father sliced her to the soul, then laughed off her furious reaction and confused her with an offer to do something fatherly. No matter how angry he’d been the last time they’d spoken, he stuck with her, clinging as stubbornly as a burr to horsehair.

As he climbed behind the wheel, she appropriated an old pair of sunglasses he’d left in his glove box and put them on to cut the morning sun’s glare. “Mind running me over to the office before we head home?” she asked. “I’ve got a little problem I need to take care of before things get out of hand. Shouldn’t take me any more than about—”

“Roger can handle it.” Her father’s seat belt locked into place with a decisive click. He turned the key, and the heman Chevy engine thrummed to life. “He told me all about it in the hallway.”

She should have known those two would bond, what with their shared disdain for her qualifications as sheriff. “Did Roger tell you he’s the one who aggravated the situation in the first place? The man wouldn’t know tact if it walked up and introduced itself.”

“You sure you’ve given him a fair shake? That you’re not just nursing a grudge ’cause he ran against you for the job?”

“No, sir,” Justine protested. “I’m nursing a grudge against him for calling me ‘Sheriff Bitchford’ behind my back, for arguing with me in front of my men, and for undermining me at every opportunity.”

Her father smiled, no doubt over “Bitchford.” Probably wishing he had thought of it himself. “That’s strange. He gave me the impression of a fellow who’s got the department’s best interests at heart. Struck me as a man of real integrity.”

Justine gritted her teeth, hurt by her father’s reliance on his fabled instincts rather than her word. Hurt even more by the fact that he would never call her a woman of integrity. And that she could never claim the appellation, no matter how hard she worked to make up for her failures.

“Roger could have won,” she said, “except he’s so bullheaded, he’s pissed off too many people.”

She might have said Savoy had pissed off the wrong people, those who drummed up support and raised funds for local candidates. Furious that he refused to play by the rules, that he had the nerve to treat them and their families with no more consideration than he’d give any other citizen, they’d thrown their support to Justine. Mostly because they’d felt certain she’d be easy to manipulate.

It had taken her a while to understand that and a while longer to comprehend that their support went far beyond the legal fund-raising and yard signs she’d expected. Still numbed by grief and reeling from the discovery that her husband of two years had left her broke, she had stumbled down the thorny path until she was ensnared.

“Stupid,” she muttered to herself as she leaned against the locked door. Bars of light strobed over her closed eyelids, sunlight filtering through the perpetually green branches of the stately live oaks that lined this neighborhood.

“Being stubborn doesn’t necessarily make a fellow stupid,” her father told her.

“I didn’t mean him, or you either.” I meant me. But Justine didn’t dare admit it. Because to her mind, her ignorance about the situation had been far worse than willful corruption. And her hesitation to step forward once the implications finally became clear had been an even greater failing. After all, what use had a dead man—even her late husband—for his reputation?

“You all right?” Her father sounded concerned. “You ought to sit up straight now. I don’t want you bumping your head if I catch a pothole. This county of yours ever hear of road maintenance?”

She opened her eyes in time to glimpse his worry before he looked away. She smiled, understanding that he didn’t like her catching him, that he was more at ease with being a role model than a father. Or a human being.

Because she somehow loved him nonetheless, and especially because she knew what it was like to love a difficult child, she straightened and watched the row of grand old houses slide past. “I’m just a little tired. Sorry.”

“You aren’t the one who needs to be apologizing,” he said darkly. “You remember any more this morning? Remember who the chickenshit bastard was that hit you?”

She was tempted to name Roger to find out if their newfound camaraderie would prevent her dad from kicking Savoy’s ass. But as satisfying as that might be, she opted for the truth. “I still can’t come up with anything past getting into my SUV to go talk to the victim’s mother, and before that, bits and pieces from the crime scene.”

She saw glimpses of it, coming in flashes that held the surreal quality of half-remembered snapshots. Caleb’s bare feet, dangling a scant few inches shy of the muddy earth. His marked pallor, in contrast to the livid patches on his soles, forearms, and hands.

But there had been something strange about those forearms. Something she hadn’t noticed in either of the other corpses…

“Dad, you need to take a right here, to my office. Did you forget where it’s—”

“I’m doing what the doctor said.” Her father sounded adamant. “Getting you home for some rest and a good meal. Getting you well so you can take care of that boy of yours the way you used to.”

She winced at the last words. “How is Noah? Did you see him this morning?” Though he didn’t show affection in the same manner as a normal child, might not even consciously realize that he missed her, she knew he would suffer from this sudden disorder in his world.

“He’s a little stressed,” her dad said diplomatically. “Mrs. Crane didn’t know the way he likes to do things in the morning. I helped the best I could, but Noah—well, he wasn’t up for talking things through.”

Justine sighed, knowing her son would be upset for weeks by the change in routine. And heaven help them all if his favorite meal of grilled cheese (sharp cheddar on stone-ground wheat, halved on the diagonal) and soup (Campbell’s Cream of Tomato, made with two-percent-fat milk) didn’t come off as planned this evening. At precisely six thirty, and not a minute earlier or later.

“Did he use his cards, at least?” she asked, referring to the picture-exchange system with which Noah had made his needs known before he’d become verbal. Though the cards were a step backward, they certainly beat the hell out of a tantrum.

“Took me a while, but I finally got him to get me one and show me what he wanted,” her father said.

“Thank God you were there.” Justine meant it. Her dad might deny her his approval, but he’d do anything for his only grandson. Maybe because Noah looked so much like Ed Junior, her brother Eddie, lost so many years ago. The thought set off an uneasy flutter in her stomach.

Her father frowned. “Seems like Noah’s…Well, I’m sure it’s tough, you working so much. And without Lou or me around to help out…”

“I know, Dad.” Justine felt sick with the reminder that her son was regressing, that even with Gwen Bollinger’s help, something she could barely afford, Noah’s hard-won gains were dwindling, day by day. It made her furious at Lou, that he would talk her into moving out here and then die, leaving her in this situation. Alone again and close to bankrupt, with no choice except to return to the only career she’d ever known. And with so many expenses that running for Lou’s office had offered her the only chance to avoid losing their home.

“I’m doing the best I can,” she said, more sharply than she meant to, but better that than crying. Deputies don’t cry, her dad had told her long before, back when Noah’s father had left her. It was a message she’d taken to heart, and one that applied doubly to an elected county sheriff. “But I really need to talk with this Thibodeaux woman about what happened last night.”

“Not now, you don’t,” her father told her. “You’re groggy, hurting, and your color’s off. And you don’t remember one damned thing about what happened.”

“If I go down there now,” she argued, “I can more than likely talk her into speaking to me without some lawyer mucking up the works—and before we end up with a bunch of salivating reporters jumping up and down and trying to second-guess us.”

“No, dice, Justine. You’re going to have to learn to delegate. Roger’s a good investigator. You’ve said that much yourself. ”

“Roger’s going to screw this up. He’s already lost his objectivity.”

“Your deputy said this woman played the race card.” Disdain leached into her father’s voice. “Said as far as he can tell, she looks and talks as white as you do.”

Justine huffed out a sigh, wondering if her dad had any clue how wrong he sounded and knowing there was little hope of convincing him on that count.

“The first victim was black,” she explained. “Hart Tyson—and I have to tell you, I nearly choked myself when we found him underneath that tree.”

“Under it?” Her father’s gaze sharpened, the investigator in him resurrected like a restless ghost.

“Yeah, the, um…the rope broke from his weight—Tyson was close to three hundred pounds. Too bad it didn’t break in time to do him any good.”

“So you considered homicide? Maybe a few drunk crackers out to relive the bad old days and smear the name of every decent white man in the area?” If her dad had sounded contemptuous before, he seemed outraged at this thought.

“Sure, I considered it,” Justine said. “Tell you the truth, my gut told me murder. But this was one big guy, and mostly muscle. I can’t believe anybody strung him up without his say-so. Besides, his family members said he’d been in a serious funk about a recent divorce. And then we found a note inside his pickup, parked out in the weeds. Family members said it looked like his handwriting.”

“What’d the ME have to say about him?” Her father glanced at her.

Justine knew her mother would have chided him—or both of them—for talking shop, would have kept the conversation strictly focused on her daughter’s injuries and her grandson’s needs. But Belinda Little Truitt, of the once-wealthy Dallas Littles, had never understood that law enforcement was father and daughter’s lingua franca, that save for Noah, it was the only common ground they had left.

“I’ll tell you what.” As they passed a new drugstore near the edge of the historic district, Justine slid a sly look his way. “You turn around and take me to my office, and I’ll let you have a look at the medical examiner’s findings on both prior deaths.”

Beneath the brim of his hat, Ed Truitt’s forehead furrowed, and his thumbs beat a tattoo against the steering wheel’s edge.

Justine searched for a way to seal the deal. “Come on, Dad. I could really use your input, all your experience, on my side.” She nearly added for a change but managed to restrain herself.

Her dad pulled off the road into the library parking lot and looked her straight in the eye. “Is it only me, Chili Pepper,” he asked, his thick white brows nearly meeting in the middle, “or are you this shameless about manipulating the bad guys?”

“Yes, sir. I like to think so.” She fought back a smile.

He executed a three-point turn, then clicked down his left-turn signal with a finger. “Then maybe there’s hope for you after all.”

“I don’t want you hiring a lawyer,” Laney insisted. Sitting across from Ross in the interview room, she looked as exhausted as he felt, with her long hair disheveled and her T-shirt and sweatpants rumpled from her sleepless night. Yet her hazel eyes sparked with the defiance that had made her such a handful in her teenage years, the same defiance that often led her mother to regularly shake her head and say, That little girl of mine, she surely does dance to her own beat.

Ross wondered, was he imagining a trace of resentment, too, that he would offer to pay his friend Dan Henderson to represent her? While his and his sisters’ late father had left them and their mother a comfortable financial cushion, Laney’s side of the family had always had to scrimp. But they were proud, too, proud enough to tire of their rich cousins’ hand-me-downs and Ross’s mother’s charity.

“I don’t know why I’ve been dragging this out,” Laney told him. “I have nothing to hide. Nothing at all. As long as they send in someone who’ll really listen this time.”

She made a face, clearly thinking of Roger Savoy’s obvious suspicion.

“You’ve been sitting here for hours,” Ross said. “You’re tired, upset, probably hungry.”

“No. Well, not hungry, anyway. One of the deputies—a nice one—brought in breakfast.” She nodded toward the empty coffee cup, crumb-stained paper plate, and napkins on the rectangular folding table between them.

“The point is,” he said, “you’re in no shape to defend yourself when someone tries to box you in a corner.”

“I’m the victim in this,” she insisted. “Why should I need to defend myself?”

“Because you pissed them off last night, when you brought up the race thing. Or you pissed off Chief Deputy Savoy.”

“Well, what else would you call a noose, Ross? A noose hung in the kitchen of the house where I live?”

He stared at her, wondering how Laney and her sisters’ family background had impacted the way they viewed things. He knew Aunt Ava’s marriage to a mixed-race man had raised eyebrows back in the day, but times had changed, even in East Texas.

As if Laney had read his mind, she said, “I don’t expect you to understand. You never had to deal with the comments, the kind of things people say when they don’t think anybody different is around. And then, if I say anything, anything at all, they…most of the time they just come up with something awkward, usually about how I shouldn’t take it wrong and how they’re not prejudiced. But other times…” Her expression faltered.

“Okay, I get that part,” Ross said. Or at least as much as a white man born into money could. Certainly he’d heard complaints from Laney and her sisters on occasion, had even intervened when some ignorant drunk had the poor sense to spout off in his presence. “But last night you were talking about Jake and Caleb, not just Hart’s death or the noose left in your kitchen. What’s this all about, Laney? Really?”

She shook her head before looking down and picking at her thumbnail. “I only want to say it once, so you can tell the deputy to come in. See if you can get the nice one. Deputy Whittaker, I think his name is.”

Ross touched her wrist and waited until she looked up at him to speak. “I don’t think you understand. If they believe you hung that rope yourself and this is all some sort of hoax, they’ll charge you. Which is why I still think you should let me call Dan.”

“Then they’ll be thinking I really did do something. Why else does anybody lawyer up?”

“Because innocent people do get charged. And sometimes they get convicted. You can’t afford to be naive here.”

Laney looked up at him, anger flashing in her eyes. “I’m not a child, Ross. And you’re not my father. I’m perfectly able to make my own decisions.”

Under other circumstances, Ross would be glad she was finally growing up and pulling away from her longtime dependence on him. But there was too much at stake here. And as the only living male in his extended family, Ross had been raised from childhood to feel a keen sense of responsibility. He thought of his mother’s and Aunt Ava’s laundry list of expectations, not only for home repair and leadership of the charitable foundation established in his grandfather’s name, but for help with any needed heavy lifting…

Your cousin Trudy’s getting a new freezer…I told her, of course, that you’d help her husband move it. What did she think? That’d you’d let her pick up that heavy thing with that back of hers?

With their daughters’ boyfriends…

You need to have a talk with this Erik your sister Gwen is seeing. Sure, he cleans up nice and speaks well, but see if you can find out who his people are. And what kind of a job allows him to keep such late hours with my daughter?

And, first and foremost, with free medical care.

Think you could stop by and see your cousin Dara? She’s got some sort of fungal situation with her toes.

Ross didn’t mind helping out upon occasion, but for his own sanity, he had to set strict limits (Dara, for example, was referred with lightning speed to a podiatrist) to prevent his family from completely taking over his life. When he did help, his sisters and his cousins were quick to give him grief at the slightest hint that he considered himself some kind of paterfamilias. And none of them was as prickly on the subject as his youngest cousin, twenty-two-year-old Laney, who considered herself liberated—except when she wanted his aid or advice.

“Listen, Laney,” he said. “Three men are dead, and you’ve clearly been threatened. Which makes this ‘you’re not the boss of me’ crap sound pretty silly.”

She slid back from the table, her short nails digging hard into the edge. “I’m a grown woman now, Ross. I—I was living with Jake. I moved in after, you know, after he was diagnosed. Around the same time you got sick.”

“So I heard,” he said. “Right before I heard he’d died, along with Hart and Caleb. Your entire band gone, and you never once called me or responded to the messages I left you?”

He was surprised to find it hurt him. Since he’d moved back from Houston after Anne’s death, Laney had driven him half-crazy, her weekly calls escalating to almost daily conversations. She phoned or dropped by to chat about her every romantic, career, or financial wrinkle and complain about her sisters, mother, and aunt, who she felt certain were conspiring to clip her songbird’s wings.

It probably said a lot about the state of his social life since his breakup with Justine that he’d actually started to look forward to the interruptions, even the hair-raising drama of her day-to-day existence. He had missed her when her calls stopped so abruptly after he fell ill.

She looked up at him, her defiance dissolving into tears that trembled on her lashes. “I’m sorry, Ross. I should have. I thought of you a hundred times, but you were so sick. Mama and Aunt Helene said I’d kill you with all my drama.”

“Laney, you know better. You had to know I’d want to—”

“I just couldn’t say the words. Couldn’t imagine telling you that Jake was—” Choking back a sob, she clapped a hand over her mouth. “I—I loved him, Ross. I loved all those guys. They were my friends, my life, the one place in this town I knew I fit in. And I’d trade everything I have, my plans, my future, all of it, if I could go back to the last night we all played together.”

“Oh, Laney.” He shook his head. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’ve missed you, Ross. Really missed you.” Her tears were flowing freely. “And I was so afraid you’d—”

Ross rose to embrace her. “It was a viral infection, that’s all. A bit of bad luck, but I’m fine now.” He was so much taller than she, he found himself speaking to the part in her hair. “And more than strong enough to help if you’ll just let me.”

Chapter Five

First Clown:

What is he that builds stronger than either the mason, the shipwright, or the carpenter?

Second Clown:

The gallows-maker; for that frame outlives a thousand tenants.

—William Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act V, Scene 1

Following a knock, Justine Wofford walked into the interview room, much to Ross’s surprise.

The walls of the cramped and dingy room squeezed, and a spasm of regret passed through him. If he hadn’t gotten sick as he had, would his plan have borne fruit by now? Would he have been able to convince her he had broken off what they had in order to start a new type of relationship, one conducted in the open, or would she have turned her back on him forever?

Months after the fact, it was far too late to think of such things, especially with his cousin’s life and freedom on the line.

“Thought you were taking a few days off,” he said to cover his discomfort.

Justine looked a little washed-out, but her dark eyes were focused. She looked more alert than she had any right to be, given her circumstances. More appealing, too, with her dark hair long and loose about her shoulders—still reminding him, as ever, of his first crush, Wonder Woman.

Justine slipped inside, moving with an easy grace that belied both her injury and height. In her hand, she carried several yellow pencils, still smelling of the sharpener, and a colorful pair of spiral notebooks, the kind kids went through by the handful every school year. “After you stopped by to see me, I decided it might be best to handle this myself before I head home. If you don’t mind, Miss Thibodeaux.”

“Fine with me,” Laney said as her gaze drifted over the sheriff’s informal attire, the total lack of makeup, and the bandage on the side of her head. Looking concerned, she added, “Are you okay? I heard someone hit you yesterday when you went to talk to Caleb’s mom.”

“I had a good doctor.” Justine flicked a barely perceptible smile at Ross. “But thanks for asking.”

“I’ve been there,” Laney added, sounding nervous for someone who had claimed to want to talk. “That’s a pretty dicey neighborhood.”

“Someone should tell the cops,” Justine said dryly as she gestured toward two of the four chairs around the table.

Once all three were seated, the sheriff flipped open a notebook, but kept it in her lap, out of sight beneath the table’s edge. “I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about Caleb’s death, Miss Thibodeaux. I’m sure it’s been horribly upsetting, losing three people so close to you within such a short time.”

Laney folded her arms across her stomach, her body rocking as she spoke. “I wish…I still can’t believe they’re all gone. I want them back. I want everything back the way it used to be.”

“I understand what that’s like.” Justine’s dark eyes were sympathetic. “I lost my husband last year, and I still imagine I can see him. I catch glimpses sometimes, in the barn, out on the back porch…”.

Ross looked away, troubled by the pain in her voice, the way it lived in her eyes. It was a pain he still caught sight of in the mirror sometimes, a pain he doubted he would ever shake completely. The broken echo of his own voice filled the corridor of a Houston trauma center.

I never should have let her leave angry. Never should’ve let her leave.

He pulled himself back, aggravated to think Justine Wofford might stoop to using her familiarity with grief to lower his cousin’s and his own defenses. Because Justine knew about his wife, Anne. Knew because he’d brought up her death in the hope that Justine might open up about her loss, too. He’d hoped to bring light and fresh air to the deep, black river he sensed flowing just beneath her surface.

Instead, she’d shut him down, after he’d handed her this unholy ammunition.

“Laney,” he warned, his tone flattening like a nail’s head beneath a blow. “I think we’d better talk to that attorney.”

Ignoring him, Laney spoke directly to the sheriff. “I wasn’t imagining last night, when Ross and I found that thing out in the kitchen. It had to be a warning. Telling me I’d be next.”

Justine nodded gravely, never taking her eyes off Laney. She didn’t remind Ross of some comic-book creation now, nor even of the lover whose absence left him feeling more alone than ever, but a predator. A hunting cat, closing in to clamp its jaws around the throat of innocence.

And there was not a damned thing he could do to stop her. With Laney refusing his help, insisting she was an adult, as she certainly was at twenty-two, Ross could do no more than sit and listen and try to stop the sheriff if things went too far.

But rather than accusing, Justine asked the question that had been on his mind. “Why would anyone want to hurt you, Miss Thibodeaux—or may I call you Laney?”

Laney waved her hand. “Sure, everyone does. And I don’t know why someone would do that, unless they’re trying to keep me quiet. Because they know I’ve figured it out. I know there’s no way all three of them killed themselves. Especially not Jake. That’s crazy.”

Justine jotted something quickly in a notebook and then looked up, perplexed. “I’m curious, Laney. When did you come to that conclusion? Because after Jake died, I spoke with you a couple of times, at least, but you never gave me any indication you disagreed with the medical examiner’s ruling. Or did I miss something?”

Laney started picking at her nails again, her eyes avoiding the sheriff’s sharpening gaze.

“I was too shocked to think anything,” Laney said. “And at first, it did seem possible, especially after the way Hart died the week before. But the more I thought about it, the more it didn’t add up. And once I heard about Caleb, I knew for certain. Caleb never would’ve killed himself. He was trying to do better, trying for his kids’ sake.”

“Let’s stick to Jake for the moment,” Justine urged, pausing for a moment to flip open the other spiral and scratch out another note. “You told me he was really upset about Hart. You said he blamed himself for not keeping better tabs on his friend after his divorce. And Jake had some kind of medical problem, too, right?”

Ross interrupted. “Jake Willets had serious health issues. He didn’t have a regular physician—no medical insurance—so he apparently put off going to a doctor until he ended up in my ER one night back in July. He presented with severe limb weakness. The symptoms were suggestive…”

“Of what?” Justine prompted.

“Ross thought it looked like multiple sclerosis,” Laney answered. “So he got Jake in to see a good doctor in Dallas. A neurologist.”

“And did this doctor confirm it?” Justine asked.

Laney shook her head, her eyes full of tears. “Worse than MS, at least in Jake’s mind. He was diagnosed with ALS.”

“Lou Gehrig’s disease,” Ross explained, giving the progressive neuromuscular disorder its better-known name.

Justine nodded, comprehending, and Ross read sympathy in her expression. “That’s the one that slowly freezes you, right? Locks your mind inside a dying body?”

Ross nodded, thinking that was as succinct an explanation as he’d heard of a hellaciously complex condition.

Justine looked at him. “Is that why you thought—”

“He was only thirty-two,” Laney blurted. “It was so unfair. And he couldn’t play his instruments. His hands stopped working. He couldn’t even…”

“Couldn’t even what?” Justine asked.

Though she never broke eye contact, the movement of her right arm hinted she was writing. For all Ross knew, she was scratching out a grocery list, but still, it made him nervous. As he suspected it was meant to.

Laney glanced at Ross, then looked away and answered quietly, “Couldn’t even touch me.”

“How did he react to these changes?”

“How do you think? How would you?” Laney wiped her eyes as grief and anger echoed in the small space. “We were going to do something with our music. And I’m not just talking about playing the Tin Roof or even music festivals in Austin and New Orleans. We recorded demo tracks before Jake got too sick—before any of them started dying. Our agent says they’re really good. And other people in the industry do, too.”

“People around here know Laney,” Ross said. “Every time I’m out with her in public, she gets stopped for autographs.”

Though Laney blushed, new interest sparked in Justine’s dark gaze.

“I’ve heard you and I’m not surprised,” she said. “And I understand you wrote most of the songs yourself, too?”

Laney nodded, a troubled look drifting like a rain-soaked mist behind her eyes. “Jake and I were planning to get married. We were planning to spend our lives together…somewhere far away where we’d both fit in.”

“Laney,” Ross said, surprised to hear this news. But not surprised that Laney had kept it from the family. Aunt Ava might have liked Laney singing in the church choir, but she and Ross’s mother both objected, loudly and often, to Laney “carrying on with those seedy musician types” at the local dance hall. And though the rest of the family had been known to show support by going to listen to her music, the consensus was that Laney ought to find herself a “fallback” career, or at least a husband with a stable job and benefits.

Laney didn’t meet his gaze. “It wasn’t fair.”

Justine glanced up from yet another note and shook her head. “Life isn’t fair. I can understand why you would feel upset, even angry when your boyfriend decided to follow Hart without asking what you wanted.”

“No,” Laney cried out, rising abruptly. “No. Jake didn’t hang himself. He wouldn’t do that to me. He knew I still loved him. He knew I’d never leave.”

“So if Jake wouldn’t kill himself, who would?” Justine asked her. “And who’d want to kill Hart Tyson and Caleb LeJeune, for that matter?”

Laney shook her head. “I don’t know who. I only know someone did.”

“Did they have enemies? Were they threatened? Any conflicts you know of?”

Laney shrugged. “Hart and his ex-wife fought like mad cats—”

“He mentioned the divorce in his note.”

“And Caleb got into more than his share of bar brawls,” Laney went on, “but none of it seemed serious, and why would anybody hang Jake?”

“So what about race, Miss Thibodeaux? You ever hear threats? Ugly comments?”

Flushing, Laney shook her head. “Hart got the occasional dumb remark from some moron or other on his umpteenth beer, but I don’t remember anything serious.”

“I couldn’t come up with any enemies, either,” Justine explained, “and I found no reason your boyfriend might’ve been purposely killed. Only explanations for why he might take his own life.”

“Except Jake couldn’t have, at least not that way,” Ross chimed in. “He was so weak, I can’t imagine him doing it on his own. Not unless he’d improved markedly from the last time I saw him.”

Laney shook her head. “No, no. He was getting worse. So even if he’d wanted to, he couldn’t have gotten out there alone without a car. He was found about a twenty-minute drive from the apartment.”

“None of his friends admitted taking him,” Justine said, “so we assumed he hitchhiked.”

“Even if he did,” Ross argued, “there’s no way he could have manipulated a rope and knots without help, unless…There were knots, weren’t there? He didn’t just wrap the rope around the tree’s base and…”

Again, he hesitated, unwilling to distress Laney by painting such an ugly picture.

“Go on, Ross,” Laney urged him. “Whatever you were going to say, I want to hear it.”

No longer bothering with notes, Justine only watched expectantly, but he could swear he heard the whir of gears behind her pale face. He saw pain there, too, in the tightness of her jaw, the careful arrangement of her features.

Was it only physical, or was his presence getting to her, as hers was to him?

“Sometimes a determined suicide only has to loop the belt or rope or what have you around his neck and lean forward against it.” Ross gentled his voice, as if that alone could blunt the edges of his harsh words. “He uses his body weight to do the work of strangulation.”

“But Mr. Willets was found…” Justine looked at Laney. “You’re sure you want to hear this?”

Laney nodded tightly. “I owe Jake that much.”

“The rope was tied to the base of a big live oak,” Justine continued. “A noose—an old-fashioned noose tied with a hangman’s knot—was apparently thrown over a thick branch about ten feet off the ground. There was a fallen tree, quite a large one, and we surmised that Mr. Willets stood on the trunk, then placed the noose around his neck and stepped off.” Justine ignored Ross’s shaking head. “Cause of death, according to the medical examiner, was cardiac arrest due to some kind of nerve reflex.”

“Vagal inhibition.” Ross looked at his cousin. “That means death was virtually instantaneous. He didn’t feel it, Laney. He didn’t suffer.”

“Thank God for that, at least.” She closed her eyes as if in prayer.

Across from her, Justine looked more disturbed than ever, her gaze unfocused and unblinking. Her face went even paler than before.

“Are you feeling all right?” Ross asked her, thinking this conversation might have been wasted on a woman so obviously in need of rest. “I can get a deputy.”

“No,” she snapped. “It’s not that. I was just thinking of the crime scene. But I’m afraid I’m mixing up the three—I’m not at my best this morning. So I’ll want to go back and take a look at the notes and photos, everything we have.”

“So you believe me?” Laney sounded hopeful. “You’re thinking this was murder?”

The sheriff rose, but slowly. “I’m thinking all three hangings deserve a second look,” she said, before focusing a sharp glance on Laney. “But if I find out you set up that ‘break-in’ last night to manipulate us—”

“Laney didn’t.” Ross stood, too, interposing himself between his cousin and his former lover. “She wouldn’t. I’m telling you, I heard the back door close when I came in. And then she was right there behind me a few seconds later.”

Justine arched a dark brow, her skepticism clear. “You know what’s interesting about that?”

“What?” Ross asked, his breath catching at her satisfied expression.

“If one door’s been left ajar, it’s sometimes sucked closed when a second exterior door is opened.” Justine took a step so she could make eye contact with Laney. “Deputy Savoy found that to be the case when he tried it at the residence. And you know what else he and the other deputy found there?”

Rather than answering, Laney looked down at her own knuckles, which had gone white where she gripped the table.

Justine flashed a mirthless smile. “No prints on the kitchen chair or on the back door. Excepting yours, that is.”

Laney glared up at her, her expression shimmering with emotion. “I’ve had enough of this suspicion, first from Deputy Savoy, and now you. You don’t think anyone smart enough to put three murders past your department is smart enough to wear a pair of gloves?”

“Well, there’s another triumph of community relations to mark down on the department scorecard,” Justine grumbled as she peered through the blinds. In the parking lot beyond her office, Ross Bollinger was opening the door of a bright red, classic sixties-model Mustang convertible for his cousin.

Seated behind her desk, her father gave a dry chuff of amusement and looked up from the file he’d been perusing. “I kind of miss rattling cages. You get anything out of the Girl Who Cried Hate Crime?”

Justine shot him a dark look. “Could you be any less politically correct?”

Her father grinned. “You don’t really want to go there, do you?”

Justine pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Your head hurting?” he asked, as if he weren’t a leading contributor to the cause.

“Yeah, it is.” She dropped into an empty chair and looked across her desk at him. She had to admit, the great Ed Truitt appeared a hell of a lot more at home than she ever had in Lou’s place.

Lou’s place, but not hers. Not yet, not ever, really. Not considering the way she’d claimed it.

Her father flipped shut the file, which exposed a stack of pink phone message slips and the row of yellow number two pencils she always kept there. The tips had all been snapped off, as they had on numerous occasions in the past weeks.

Yet another expression of admiration from one of the deputies working the bullpen just outside the office door she always left unlocked.

Her face heating, she itched to sharpen the damned things again, just to show she wasn’t going to be run off by petty bullshit.

Her father saw her looking, shook his head. “Forget that, Chili Pepper, and let’s get this show on the road. Can we take this file with us? There are a couple of things here I want to ask you about.”

Snatching up the messages, Justine riffled through them, finding the usual calls from the two main contenders trying to convince her that jail privatization was the way to go, along with another reminder from County Judge Ellis Major that she had better have that revised budget to him by Friday at the latest. If she gave in on the jail issue, she knew she could come up with the required cuts, but she remained determined to find some way that wouldn’t put a dozen of her people out of work. Especially after several employees had come to her on the eve of her election and given her so many good reasons to rethink her late husband’s plan.

But right now, budget shortfalls, pushy bidders, and the county judge’s wrath would have to be bumped to the back burner. Behind three hanging deaths and her assault, though well ahead of broken pencils.

Shoving the messages into her pocket, she told her dad, “Sure thing. I’ll make copies of all three files, and we’ll go over them, see if there’s anything my guys and I missed. And don’t let me forget my notebooks.”

“So you’re still using my old system.” Her father sounded gratified.

“Always steal from the best,” she said. “You taught me that one, too.”

It took longer than she expected, tracking down the other files and wresting them from Savoy, who was racking up a lot of overtime this week, in spite of all her memos warning deputies about the budget. But finally she and her father were heading back to her place, discussing Noah’s recent fascination with digitally recording and collecting sound files. Though Justine had turned him on to the hobby, mostly in the hope of an eventual escape from his years-long fixation with crashing, clashing, and banging pots and pans, she felt the need to warn her father about her son’s new interest in sneaking about and capturing any unusual noises, including those that emanated from the human body.

Her father laughed at that, then changed the subject. “I like the way you stepped up back there, in your office.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“The way you said we’d be looking for anything your men and you missed showed a willingness to take blame rather than trying to pin it on your men.”

“You grab a share of the credit, you shoulder a share of the grief.” As the still-green border of her pasture came into view, Justine threw the old man another bone. “Couple of good lawmen taught me that much.”

Behind the wheel, her father nodded. “Lou was a good sheriff. A decent man, too. I’ll admit that.”

It was quite a concession coming from the father who had once called her late husband “that sorry-ass old lecher” and boycotted their wedding. Probably because she’d seen Lou in secret for four months before she’d blurted the news that they were getting married.

Though Lou was gone now, Justine soaked up the belated acceptance like a parched flower. Mostly because she needed to believe in her own choices—and needed confirmation of Lou’s basic decency, in spite of the lapses she’d discovered. Lapses she knew her father would never understand.

Scanning the empty pasture, her dad added, “So what happened to Lou’s horses? This morning I went out to feed the animals, and all I found was that one whiskery old mare.”

At twenty-one years old, Moonshadow would never find a good home. And because the pregnant mare had always been patient and trustworthy with her son, Justine couldn’t bear the thought that the graying Morgan would end up processed to feed the big cats at the Dallas zoo.

“Hell, Justine, even the dogs are gone,” her father said. “What’s going on around here?”

Justine grimaced, not wanting to spoil the moment with her answer. But her father was no idiot. No matter what story she fed him, he’d soon notice more than missing livestock.

“I had to sell them, Dad,” she said. “Horses, even the miniatures, need a lot of time and care. And one of the buyers fell in love with Clyde and Oscar. She begged me to let them go, too.”

A pair of Great Pyrenees trained as herd guardians, the huge white dogs needed to work. It would have been unfair, and outrageously expensive, to simply keep the two as pets. Besides that, every time she looked at them, she saw Lou’s ghost walking with them in the pasture, bending to scratch their ears, or whistling them over for a romp.

“So what did Noah think about that?”

“Those dogs belonged heart and soul to Lou,” Justine said. “Maybe if they’d been brought up from puppies around Noah, they all would have bonded.”

“Then maybe he should have a pup of his own. Maybe his ol’ grandpa should see to it.” Her father turned onto the long gravel drive that approached the white, wood-frame twostory, with its big, welcoming front porch and long decades of history.

Like both her son and the animals, the old house needed attention. More attention than Justine could possibly supply.

“No puppy, Dad,” she pleaded. “I don’t have the time…or the money, either.” Her father, of all people, should remember what had happened the last time she’d allowed a dog to get inside her heart.

There. She’d said it. She’d finally broached the subject. Her heart bumped, and she prayed he’d let it drop.

Her father, sharp as ever, stopped the truck short. “Out with it, Justine. All of it.”

She snapped the thick rubber band she’d used to bind the files. “Dad, I’m really tired. My head’s hurting, and I—”

“Stay right there and tell me. You’re having money troubles?”

Almost imperceptibly, she nodded. Like a child admitting she’d blown her allowance on something trivial. “I’m sure Lou never meant for this to happen. I’m positive he thought he could fix things before…”

“Fix what? Don’t make me drag it out of you, girl.”

Justine sucked in a deep breath. “His life insurance, Dad. Lou borrowed against it.”

Her father’s face went scarlet. “Are you telling me that stupid son of a bitch left you with no insurance?”

She looked away, thinking of the money that should have secured Noah’s future. Money Lou had promised would keep Justine and her son in the house. “In a nutshell, yes. He’d emptied out his retirement fund, too.”

“The damned fool.” Her father shook his head, but couldn’t shake off the disgust in his expression. “Do you know what happened? Where’d the money go?”

“Lou…Lou bet on a lot more than weekly poker.”

“So it was gambling trouble?” her father asked.

“Not the kind you’re thinking. He bet his money on highrisk speculation. And horse breeding wasn’t the only investment he lost big on.” She didn’t go into specifics, how he’d backed several harebrained local ventures, more than a few of them from major campaign contributors.

Which was why she’d been so confused by the direct deposits to their joint account months after Lou had died, transfers from some offshore entity by the improbable name of Sunrise Happy Doodle International, located in the British Virgin Islands. But by that time, Justine had been seriously behind on bills and too desperate to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Her father parked alongside the house.

“The choices make the man,” he said bitterly, referring to Lou’s errors.

But Justine had no problem decoding the subtext, the unspoken message that her bad choices were the trouble, dating back to that worst of all decisions…

The one that had cost the family her older brother’s life.

Chapter Six

Fear is a noose that binds until it strangles.

—Jean Toomer

Anyone with balls enough to take a man’s life, to slip the noose around some poor bastard’s neck and give him that last push, ought to have brains enough to get the terminology straight.

You’re meant to say you hanged the fellow, or that he was hanged, for that’s the proper term to use when speaking of a killing.

As to whether he was hung or not, you’re going to have to consult the dead man’s girlfriend, or maybe the folks over at the Peaceful Slumber Funeral Home.

Because—and I’ll swear this on a stack of Bibles—I am not the kind to look.

Unless it comes to the execution of a woman, because that, my friends, is a far more intriguing proposition. So interesting that if my hand is ever forced, I’ll be sure to talk the lady in question into wearing a sweet, short skirt or that little black dress she’s got (so much like yours, with those golden sandals you loved to death) tucked way back in her closet.

Saving it for a special occasion, no doubt. And what could be more special than her last occasion, one final chance for a man to stare up at her in awe?

With no sleep and little prospect of catching any in the next few hours, Ross grabbed a can of Coke from his aunt’s refrigerator and sat at the table to call Kenneth Fleming at the hospital. When he reached the ER doctor, Ross asked, “Is there any way you can finish out my shift? If you can’t, I’ll get hold of Tremont and see if he can cover.”

Since tomorrow was Ross’s scheduled day off, that would give him a little breathing space, at least.

“You all right?” Kenneth sounded more concerned than tired, though he’d spent the night on duty. “You need to come in and let me check you over?”

“It’s nothing like that,” Ross said quickly, though exhaustion was turning his limbs leaden. “It’s just…I’ve got a family issue. I need to be with Laney right now.”

“Sure, Ross. Family comes first,” said the man who had let down his own regularly enough to lose them. “I’ll be glad to cover for you. Least I can do after dragging in so late last night.”

Ross thanked Kenneth before ending the call. Hearing a sharply drawn breath to his left, he spotted Laney through the open kitchen doorway. Wrapped in a thick white robe with her hair damp from her shower, she stood frozen in the living room, her gaze fixed on the spot where the noose had been left hanging.

Though the deputies had taken it for evidence, Ross imagined he saw it there, suspended, a teardrop-shaped loop of malice, or its ghostly afterimage.

“I didn’t do it.” Laney’s voice was soft and rich, as melodious as her saddest ballads. “I could never have touched a thing like that, and I would never hurt myself. I want you to know that. So if something happens to me—”

“Don’t talk like that,” Ross said. “Nothing’s going to happen, not with the family looking out for you. I spoke to Trudy and Dara, and they’re coming over as soon as they can to—”

“Oh, no.” Tears gleaming in her eyes, Laney stalked into the kitchen. “God, Ross. Why did you have to go and do that?”

“They’re your sisters. Of course they have to know. They want to know so they can help you.”

“They want to know so they can rag on me about how they always knew something like this would happen if I hung around in bars and shacked up with some musician.” She pulled open the refrigerator and began scanning the contents. “I swear, the two of them are worse old ladies than Mama and Aunt Helene.”

“Well, it’s too late now. They already know, and they’re coordinating. Trudy’s going to call my sisters, too, set up a schedule for who comes when.”

Laney let the refrigerator door drift closed and looked at him, her face a study in despair. “God help me, then. Jake and the guys dead, and now I’ll have our whole clan showering me with suggestions that I get a nice, safe nursing degree…or maybe my teaching certificate. Or if I’m too dumb for college, I can maybe wait tables over at Hammett’s or ring up nose spray, cards, and condoms at the drugstore. Anything but wasting ‘the best years of my life’ on some stupid little dream.”

Ross walked up behind her and laid his hand on her shoulder. “Go sit down. I’ll make us breakfast.” He glanced at the old rooster clock that hung above the back door. “Or lunch, I guess. I can’t believe it’s almost noon already.”

Laney sank down into a chair beside the table, where she pushed her head into her hands.

Ross pulled out leftovers from two nights before, green peppers stuffed with rice and lean ground turkey rather than the usual sausage. “For your poor heart,” Aunt Ava had soberly pronounced, as if he were recovering from the same clogged arteries that had killed Ross’s father rather than a viral illness. After spooning one into a bowl, along with a generous topping of tomato sauce, he popped it inside the microwave to heat.

As the food spun on the carousel, he told his cousin, “You’re wrong about the family. Everyone’s proud of your talent. ”

“You are, maybe. You’re the only one who’s ever—”

“We’re all proud,” Ross insisted. “It’s just…we worry, that’s all. We see musicians around here working in rough places, with a lot of shady people. You have to admit, the Tin Roof’s not exactly the kind of—”

“The Tin Roof won’t be forever,” she snapped, but her bravado quickly faltered, and she looked down at the plastic place mats. “Or at least, it wouldn’t have been, if Jake and the guys were still…”

Ross’s stomach growled at the pepper-and-tomato aroma filling the kitchen. He pulled the bowl out of the microwave and tested the inner temperature. “Damn it,” he muttered, shaking his burned finger.

Laney’s expression darkened so that she didn’t seem to see him set the food before her, along with a napkin, knife and fork, and, as his meal heated, a glass of iced tea with a wedge of lemon.

“Those demo tracks we did…” she said, “they could have gotten us out, Ross. Simon told me they’re the real deal.”

The band’s booking agent, Simon Cordero out of Austin, supposedly had all sorts of entertainment industry connections. Which had always begged the question, at least in Ross’s mind, of what the guy was doing in a backwater spot like Hammett’s on the Lake trolling for talent. Laney had explained it as an “act of fate” that Cordero and his wife, both avid fishermen, had docked their fancy bass boat and gone inside to grab a burger last June, just as Laney launched what she laughingly called her most “vampalicious crowdpleaser,” a song called “Cat-eyed Callie.” According to Laney, who never tired of telling the story, Cordero’s food went stone-cold (much to his wife’s irritation) as he’d watched, mesmerized. Before the evening was over, he’d offered to represent the band.

When Ross had asked a few questions about the arrangement, Laney had flown off the handle, assuring him they were beyond lucky to hook up with a “star maker.” Since it wasn’t his area of expertise, Ross had quickly backed off, relieved and happy when Cordero began booking the band in venues throughout Texas and Louisiana.

“I’m sure those tracks were good. Are good, I mean.” Ross groped uselessly for some prescription, some treatment plan he could write to mend a broken dream.

“I burned a CD for you,” Laney said. “I want you to have it.”

“Thanks,” he told her, but as much as he loved the band’s music, he couldn’t imagine enjoying the recordings. Couldn’t stomach the thought of listening to his cousin’s voice backed up by three hanged men.

But she pressed the issue, her eyes heartbroken as she added, “When you hear the music, you’ll see how close we came.”

“I keep coming back to this one. Defensive wounds?” Justine’s father asked her, pointing out some bruising on the underside of the late Jake Willets’s forearms.

Feeling refreshed and clearer-headed after lunch, a shower, and a long nap, Justine slid into the seat beside him at her kitchen table and peered down at the photo through a magnifying glass.

“Just a shadow,” she wondered aloud, “or postmortem lividity?”

She dug the ME’s report out of the folder and skimmed down until she found what she was looking for. “Yep. Here it is. Blood settling, that’s all. No signs of trauma on his body. Other than the neck, that is.”

Her own words—signs of trauma—had her reaching for the LeJeune file, but the crime-scene photos, taken only yesterday, had not yet been printed and inserted. She’d left a note to Roger to attach and e-mail the digital files to her but hadn’t gotten around to checking her computer. Partly because she didn’t look forward to calling Savoy to remind him, which she’d bet the farm she’d have to do.

“Where’s the tox-screen report?” her father asked. “I didn’t see one in Hart Tyson’s file, either. Reports ought to be kept in one spot. Hallmark of poor discipline, having information scattered hell to breakfast.”

Justine bristled at the criticism. “It’s only been a month since the first body was discovered. Since there weren’t any outward signs of foul play, I didn’t have the ammunition to put a rush on the report. It could be two months before toxicology gets to it. Unless you have some special kind of magic you want to share with me.”

“No magic, just relationships, Chili Pepper. You build relationships with your medical examiners, you can lean on them for special favors.”

She would have rolled her eyes but didn’t want to risk rekindling her headache. “You ever try leaning on the Dallas ME’s office? We’re not talking one of your Podunk goodol’-boy pals who can swing it on his lunch break as a special favor to you.”

Grinning, her dad pulled his cell phone from his pocket. “You’re contracting out of Dallas? Well, hell, Justine, why didn’t you say so?”

While her father made the call to a former fishing buddy, Justine went into the laundry room and dumped out the bag with her clothing from the emergency room to see if there was anything she could salvage. After looking at the blood-stained shreds, she sighed…and tried not to think about Ross Bollinger cutting the clothes from her unconscious body with a pair of scissors.

“You’ve got it wrong,” she heard her father saying on the phone. “You pronounce it WOFF-erd, but she’s my daughter, all right. Nope, that apple didn’t fall too far from the tree.”

Smiling to hear pride in his voice, though she suspected it was put on, Justine plucked out her shoes and was just about to toss the ruined suit when she thought to check the jacket’s pockets.

No keys or wallet, since her father had collected both last night, and she couldn’t find the small notepad she used to jot down various observations and reminders to herself throughout the day. But she did pull out a folded strip of thick ivory paper.

Opening it, she frowned at the machine-printed words: KEEP YOUR WORD OR STEP ASIDE. NOW.

Great, she thought. Another happy constituent. From irate e-mails to phone messages to letters to the editor of the local paper, she’d heard from plenty since the allegations had gone public.

Though this particular example was milder than many, the part about keeping her word confused her. What word did the note refer to? And where had this piece of paper come from? She couldn’t recall ever seeing it before. Was it just one more thing she’d forgotten, as she’d forgotten so many things from the hours surrounding her assault? Or was it…

Maybe the message had not been sent to her by mail or left at the front desk at the office. Maybe whoever had whacked her on the head had slipped it inside her pocket.

Jolted by the thought, she nearly called for her dad to bring a plastic sandwich bag so she could preserve the note for evidence. Before the idea could translate into speech, however, she remembered going to her vehicle in the office lot before the hanging and finding the unsigned note tucked beneath her windshield wiper. Preoccupied with other concerns, she’d shoved it absently inside a pocket.

At the sound of tires on the gravel driveway, Justine looked up.

“Noah?” asked her father from the kitchen.

“Still a little early, but…” Justine glanced outside. “Oh, no. Of all the damned things.”

Her outburst came in response to the silver Cadillac rolling up the driveway.

Edging away from the window, Justine wondered if it was too late or if the visitor had seen her already.

“Who’s that?” Her father came into the laundry room and walked up to the window.

“Erik Whatley,” Justine said with a curl of her lip. “Schmoozer-in-chief for Southern Humane Detention, Inc.”

“One of your husband’s rent-a-jailer outfits?” There was no mistaking her father’s disdain for the private detention companies, which he’d so often called “a bunch of corner-cutting scammers.” He’d thought Lou was crazy to ask for bids in the weeks preceding his death.

But then, Lou had believed her father, who had retired from office more than fifteen years earlier, was a dinosaur with no concept of modern economics.

“Thought you told ’em both to take a hike,” her father added.

“I did,” Justine said, “but this guy’s probably heard I have my ass in a sling over the budget right now. Which gives him one last shot at boring me into a coma about how much money his outfit can save the county and how he’ll run a good, clean operation, unlike a certain competitor he’ll decline to name.”

Where Whatley came, his competitor Hal Smithfield usually followed, so Justine figured she had a visit from the attorney representing CorrecTex to look forward to. And if Whatley always left her feeling slimed with his unctuousness, Smithfield left her feeling bulldozed.

Sighing, she watched Whatley exit his sedan. Strikingly handsome, he wore an expensive charcoal suit and a two-hundred-dollar haircut that made his prematurely silver hair look like a fashion statement. After glancing toward the house, he went around to the passenger door and removed a huge basket of white flowers.

Justine cut a look her father’s way. “Looks all ready for a funeral. Damn golf club must’ve whacked me harder than I thought.”

Her father grabbed his hat from the table. “Hard enough that we can spare you all this nonsense.”

“No, Dad. I really should talk to him.” Though Justine hated the idea, jail privatization would offer a solution to an otherwise impossible budget challenge. Maybe she could hammer out an agreement that the winner would hire on at least some of the staff she’d be forced to cut. She knew already that her people would have to take pay and benefit cuts, but something was better than nothing, wasn’t it? Especially considering the county’s unemployment rate.

“You’re in no shape to be bothered with this bullshit right now.” Her father headed for the door. “So sit yourself down and let me get rid of this fella.”

Justine might be furious at her dad for taking over, but she was secretly relieved when he went outside and chatted with Whatley for about ten minutes before returning with the huge arrangement in his arms.

Looking up from the file she’d been studying, Justine said, “I could’ve handled him…but thanks. Wow—those are really gorgeous. Smell good, too.”

Her father shook his head. “You’re such a girl sometimes.”

“Why thank you,” she said, though she knew he hadn’t meant it as a compliment. “So did Whatley shoot you his spiel?”

Another shake of the head. “Man didn’t say one word about business. Only wanted to know how you were doing. Said he’d heard about your ‘accident’ and couldn’t stand to think about you hurt.”

“Oh, you sly, sly vice president of regional expansion, you,” she said in the direction of the departed Cadillac.

“If I didn’t know any better”—her father smirked to show that he did—”I’d say that poor fellow’s sweet on you.”

Standing, Justine rubbed the back of her neck. “See how many cards and flowers he sends if I find another way around this budget—or choose his competitor. I’ll be right back, Dad. I could use a couple of Tylenol.”

She started toward the bathroom, but at the sound of a faint rumbling, Justine looked toward the window and spotted not Hal Smithfield’s black CorrecTex Hummer, as she’d feared, but Gwen Bollinger’s small blue BMW rolling up the driveway. The sight made Justine forget her headache in her eagerness to see her son.

“Our boy’s home,” she called to her father on her way to the back door. After yesterday’s ordeal, she wanted nothing more than to pull him into her arms and cover him with kisses, or tickle him and roughhouse, in spite of her sore head.

With an effort, she reined in her exuberance, reminding herself that when it came to Noah, a smile and a hand squeeze were about as much physical contact as he could handle. She’d lost her most recent chance of physical affection when Ross had cut her like a cancer from his life.

Shunting aside the thought, she quickened her step, hurrying toward the son she’d learned to accept on his own terms.

To love the way she wanted to be loved in return.

But as she trotted down the back steps, her smile fell at the sight of the empty seat beside her sitter.

Gwen shut off the engine and climbed out of the car, and Justine asked, “Where’s Noah?”

A slender woman of nearly thirty, with tousled, wheat-blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes, Gwen looked startled by the question. “You mean he isn’t here? I—I thought you’d picked him up on your way home from the hospital.”

“I would never do that without calling you.”

Gwen’s fair skin turned even paler. “My cell phone died the other day, and the new one I ordered hasn’t come yet. When I stopped in the office to ask where Noah was, somebody radioed student pickup, and the teacher on duty said she was sure she saw you get him.”

“I wasn’t anywhere near the school.”

Gwen shook her head. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea. I should have found that teacher personally and asked her. But the office was a zoo, kids and parents running in and out, some ordeal about a bus that broke down, and two boys with bloody noses.”

Justine believed it. Whenever she had been there at dismissal time, she’d witnessed the controlled chaos as almost six hundred kids were shuffled into waiting cars or buses or sent to walk or ride their bikes home. “Not your fault,” she told Gwen, “but we have to find out where he’s—”

“What if he got mixed up?” Gwen asked. “You know, because of all the excitement last night with your getting hurt, maybe he thought today was Thursday and he got on the bus.”

“I guess it’s possible,” Justine said. On Thursdays, Gwen met the bus at the house.

“I’m calling the school right now,” she said, but she’d barely turned toward the house when a realization bumped against her chest wall. “Wait a minute. I just heard the bus pass by here a few minutes before you came.”

Ed Truitt came outside to join them, looking around eagerly. “Where’s that handsome grandson of mine?”

“We aren’t sure, Dad,” Justine told him.

His face froze as he looked from Justine to Gwen. “Aren’t sure? What the hell do you mean, you aren’t sure?”

Flinching at his tone, Gwen explained what she’d been told at the school and her theory that Noah might have ridden the bus home. “Maybe he did get off the bus, but he didn’t come straight in for some reason.”

They looked around, gazes touching on the stable, shed, and detached garage, then sweeping an empty pasture, save for old Moonshadow grazing solo in the distance. There were a million places where an undersized nine-year-old could hide. But to Justine, that made no sense. Noah always ran directly inside for milk, string cheese (warmed in the microwave for exactly eight seconds), and some grapes or half an apple, the same after-school snack to which he’d clung religiously for three years.

He wasn’t a boy who varied his routine. Not willingly, anyway. Anxiety curdled in her stomach and reawakened the sick throb in her head.

Justine turned to her father. “Did you say anything to him this morning?”

“What? No. He went off with Mrs. Crane—Say…”

Justine finished his thought. “Maybe Marianne thought she was supposed to bring him by, and she’s heading this way with him now. Let me run inside and try to reach her.”

Her father nodded. “You do that, and we’ll check the outbuildings. ”

Hurrying back inside, Justine fought back the crush of memories, the calls she’d made as a deputy and during her short time as sheriff. The horror-stricken faces of desperate mothers, frantic fathers, reporting missing children. The splintering of hope, of love, of the life the family took for granted in those cases when the missing were found dead. Drowned in a neighbor’s weedy pond or filthy pool. At the bottom of a rooftop. And in those worst, most heartbreaking of occasions, at the hands of some adult.

Stop it. Stop now. Think about all those times when you found the kid safe. Think like a professional and get your act together.

But as Justine dialed the school’s number, her mind spun like a roulette wheel, an ivory ball bouncing from one black question to the next. What if last night’s assault had been something more than a crime of opportunity, a general lashing out against local law enforcement? What if, instead, something personal was playing out, some grudge that could translate into an attack against her son?

“Lakeview Elementary,” a harried-sounding woman answered. But then, the school’s secretary always sounded stressed and put-upon.

Justine stayed on the line long enough to learn that Marianne Crane had left early for a doctor’s appointment, definitely without Noah. And that Noah’s teacher, who’d been supervising student pickup after school, could have possibly been distracted by a fight that broke out between two boys while she was ushering various children to the vehicles that pulled up.

“This happens every couple weeks or so.” A scintilla of compassion competed with the know-it-all in the secretary’s voice. “The parents always find their kids safe and sound. Every one of them in the sixteen years I’ve worked here.”

“My child’s disabled,” Justine shot back. “He’s barely verbal. He rarely makes eye contact, ignores the other kids, and can’t handle meeting strangers. Does that sound like the kind of boy who suddenly makes a new friend and decides to play at his house?”

“Justine—Mrs. Wofford. Hurry,” Gwen shouted from outdoors.

Unable to distinguish her sitter’s panic from horror or even elation, Justine broke the connection without saying good-bye.

Chapter Seven

When you reach the end of your rope, tie a knot in it and hang on.

—Thomas Jefferson

Though Ross would have preferred catching up on lost sleep in the blue bungalow he’d spent the last two years restoring, he stretched out on the sofa at his aunt’s house instead. It was too short for his height and nowhere near as comfortable as his bed at home, but he had no intention of leaving Laney until her sister showed up after work.

When the doorbell woke him later, he groaned, hoping his cousin would answer but prepared to ignore the interruption if she slept through it. Rolling over, he attempted to get back to a mouthwatering dream he’d been having about Anne.

Except it wasn’t his dead wife in the dream, he realized. The hair was too dark, the eyes a smoldering near-black, the pale and ample breasts overflowing both his hands as he squeezed them. Proving once and for all that a man’s subconscious was ruled by lust instead of reason.

Yet even awake, he wanted Justine. Wanted her fierce intelligence, her dark, deadpan humor, and God help him, the most exciting sex he’d ever experienced. He half dreamed it was her he’d heard at the door, and he envisioned himself rising from this sofa, from his very body, to let her in.

When the doorbell sounded again, he gave up his attempt to reenter the dream. Woke to the cold knowledge: It’s all over. Broken beyond fixing, even if it weren’t for Justine’s suspicion of his cousin.

The doorbell rang yet again, the chiming followed by a series of hard raps. Ross got up and answered, determined to get rid of whatever neighbor or door-to-door salesman had come calling. Instead, he was greeted by young deputy Calvin Whittaker in uniform, a concerned expression on his broad face.

Ross hoped like hell Calvin wasn’t about to tell them they’d come up with security video of Laney buying the rope. Though Ross’s knee-jerk response had been to defend her, he’d started to wonder, in those brief moments before sleep took him, about how odd Laney’s behavior had seemed, how unlike her the claim of racial intimidation had been.

“What’s wrong?” Ross asked. “You find out something about last night’s break-in?”

Whittaker shook his blond head. “Nothing to do with your cousin, Dr. Bollinger. I’m here to ask if you’ll come with me. When your sister couldn’t reach you, she said I should drop by and see if you were here.”

“Gwen?” he guessed. “Is something wrong?” Self-reliant and levelheaded as anyone he knew, his sister wasn’t the type to call the sheriff’s department over something trivial. Pulling his cell phone from his pocket, he frowned at its blank face and realized he’d been too tired and distracted to recharge its battery.

“It’s Justine’s—the sheriff’s—little boy. Something’s wrong with him. Kid’s half-hysterical, pitching a fit over the idea of going to the ER. And Gwen thought, since you’ve seen him before…”

All thoughts of catching more sleep vanished. Regardless of his history with Justine or her suspicion of his cousin, this was a child, a child whose terror would be magnified by his developmental delays. “Is he sick? Injured? What’s going on?”

“We don’t know. He was missing after school—wasn’t there when your sister went to pick him up, and he didn’t ride the bus home. A little later, they found him in the stable, crying. He’s wedged himself under a pallet where they pile hay bales. Real upset. Won’t let anybody touch him. Justine—Sheriff Wofford’s worried sick. They have no idea who brought him home or what’s happened to him, but they’re afraid of making things worse by dragging him out of there.”

Fully alert now, Ross said, “I’ll grab my bag out of my car.” Though he wasn’t in the habit of making house calls, he kept a medical bag stocked with first aid and a few basic items. “But first, I need to let my cousin know I’m leaving.”

After raking his fingers through his hair to neaten it, he tapped on Laney’s door.

No answer, so he cracked it open and found her sleeping with a child’s abandon, her wavy hair fanned out around her on the pillow. Reluctant to wake her, he found a pen on her dresser and jotted a quick note on the back of a junk-mail envelope:

Went to help Gwen at the sheriff’s place. Trudy here in twenty minutes. Sleep tight.

Returning to Calvin, he said, “Let’s go.”

As they locked up and hurried to the car, the deputy shot a glance his way. “I appreciate this, Doctor. Personally, I mean.”

In the younger man’s look, Ross saw a truth he’d half suspected in the ER’s waiting room the night before: that Justine Wofford was more than just a boss to Calvin. That the twenty-three-year-old rookie’s dreams were no less improbably full of her than Ross’s.

Among the loose chaff of the stable’s feed room, Justine went back down to her hands and knees and ignored the throbbing protest of her head and the wave of nausea that followed. Paid them no heed because all that mattered was getting face-to-face with Noah.

“Please, honey, come out.” Justine peered into the recess in an attempt to see any sign of injury. “Come on in the house with me.”

From beneath long, chocolate-colored bangs, his brown eyes widened with horror. Scooting beneath the pallet even deeper, he used thin arms to shovel loose hay in front of him.

Crouched behind a nearby barrel of horse feed, Justine’s father caught her eye, then flicked a look at Noah’s small wrist while white brows rose with the unspoken question: Grab an arm and drag him out, or leave him be?

As if he’d sensed the danger, Noah withdrew and shrieked, “No touch, no touch,” covering his face with one arm as if even eye contact overwhelmed him. “Bad touch.”

His terror struck at Justine’s courage like a hammer’s blow against a sheet of glass. But what overwhelmed her was the bruising on his forearm, a set of adult-size purpling fingerprints capped with crescent-moon-shaped cuts. Fingernail cuts, from where someone had gripped him. Gasping, she jerked back.

“Someone’s hurt him.” She was shaking so hard she could barely squeeze the words past her rage. “Some son of a bitch hurt my son and then just dropped him off like nothing happened. ”

With Gwen watching, horror-stricken, Justine’s father caught her by the elbow and helped her to her feet. “He’s already terrified, so pull yourself together. You cannot fall apart now. We can’t. Now let’s back off a little. Give the boy some breathing space.”

With fury ripping loose inside her, Justine snarled, “When I find who did this, he won’t fucking live to stand trial.” She pictured herself shoving her service weapon beneath some bearded child abductor’s chin, staring him in the face as she squeezed the trigger.

“Stop it, Justine.” Her father’s voice cracked like a whip. “Stop it before your deputy gets here with the doctor. If you can’t do it for Noah, do it to keep the respect of—”

“This is my son, Dad. My. Son. I don’t give a damn what anybody else thinks about it or me or anything. You understand that?”

Gwen wiped away tears and rushed out of the feed room, her lips moving in a fervent prayer. Justine wanted to tell her it was useless, wanted to scream at her and God alike.

But abruptly as a thunderclap, she realized what she was doing: She was escalating the emotion, communicating her fear and rage to a child who desperately needed steadfastness and comfort if he were ever to recover.

She clasped her father in a fierce hug and told him, “Sorry, Dad. When you’re right, you’re right. I’m pulling it together. Now.”

Her father nodded his approval, then moved past her to squat, knees cracking, a few feet back from the pallet. In the shadow beneath it, Noah’s face was barely visible beneath loose golden stalks. The boy’s eyes were wet and swollen, his nose streaming so that Justine ached to wipe it.

Instead, she forced herself to stand and watch. Forced the hysterical mother in her to take a backseat to the sheriff.

“Time to come on out, son,” said her father, smiling as easily as if this were any other day. “We can bang your pans awhile while your mama makes some supper. Or you can get that new recorder I heard about, and I’ll rip off a great big belch for your collection. Waay better than anything your mom or Miss Gwen can muster.”

Though Noah only peered at him suspiciously, the sight of her dad, looking and sounding so big and warm and friendly, reminded Justine of the days she’d thought her father equal to any situation. The days before Eddie’s death, when the man’s harsh words had smothered her childish trust forever.

She hugged herself, chills rippling up her arms, and said, “Where are they? Calvin said they would be here soon.”

As if conjured by her words, she heard the crackling of tires on the gravel driveway. Before she could leave the feed room, her father pulled out a white handkerchief and handed it up to her. “Mind your face now, Sheriff.”

Snatching it away, she blotted burning eyes as she rushed out the open doorway and waved an arm at the approaching department SUV.

When Ross Bollinger, looking strong and tall and capable, climbed out the passenger side, a tight knot inside her loosened. The recent past fell away, and his concerned, competent expression convinced her she’d been right to accept Gwen’s suggestion.

His sister kissed his cheek. “Thanks for coming. Trudy told me you’ve been up with Laney, but I thought you’d want to—”

“It’s fine. No problem.” Ross looked past her to Justine. “Where is he? Do you know what happened?”

“He has bruises on his arm,” she said. “Bruises from where someone’s grabbed him and God only knows what else.”

“Justine…” Ross started to reach for her, but cut short the reflexive move.

“He’s still in the feed room, hiding,” she went on. “We can’t get him to come out from underneath the pallet.”

“You need an ambulance?” Calvin asked. “Want me to call for one? And what about more deputies? Should I ask for—”

“His grandfather’s got him out!” Gwen cut in, and Justine followed her gaze to the stable door, where her father—thank God for him—was carrying Noah, who’d wrapped his arms and legs around him like a monkey and buried his face against his grandfather’s broad shoulder.

Justine ran toward them, trailed by Gwen, Ross, and the deputy.

“Didn’t see any bleeding,” Ed Truitt assured them, “nothing but a little bruising. But his shirt’s all cockeyed, buttoned up the wrong way.”

Justine felt her knees weaken, felt her world fray at the edges. Buttons perfect, tags tucked, the tabs on zippers pressed down: Noah was obsessively attentive to such details, wouldn’t leave the house without checking each one in the mirror.

“Let’s get him inside,” Ross said, “where I can take a good look at him.”

Justine looked at Calvin. “Maybe that ambulance is a good idea. Ask ’em to come in without sirens, and you wait for them out here. Don’t let them inside without my say-so.” Noah was already freaked enough without throwing more strangers into the mix.

With a crisp, “You can count on me, ma’am,” Calvin rushed toward his SUV.

Justine reached the back door first and held it open. “Dad, take him up to his bedroom. Familiar territory. Gwen, could you wait downstairs? The fewer people we have—”

Gwen nodded, understanding.

But Ross glanced Justine’s way and said quietly, “You stay downstairs, too, Mom.”

“What?”

“I’ll want to examine your son.” Ross’s look spoke volumes, the sympathy in his gray eyes belying his matter-of-fact tone. “And I think it might be better if it was just us guys.”

Before Justine could react, her father rushed upstairs with Noah, the doctor in his wake. Leaving her to stare after them, a sickness growing in her soul.

Chapter Eight

There is no satisfaction in hanging a man who does not object to it.

—George Bernard Shaw

“Right here.” Ross gestured toward a twin bed covered with a denim comforter, the centerpiece of a neat, boyishly blue room.

Justine’s father brushed a kiss over his grandson’s temple as he set the boy down. Perched along the bed’s edge, Noah whimpered, clinging to his grandfather before allowing his thin arms to slip down to his sides.

Noticing Ross for the first time, the boy stiffened. “No go hos-pit-al,” he insisted. “No touch. Bad touch.”

Ross lowered himself to his knees on the braided oval rug to bring himself down to Noah’s level. Though the child’s eyes were swollen and his nose streamed, his color looked good, and Ross could see no blood, nor any obvious signs of physical distress.

“That’s right, Noah. No hospital for now, if you can help me right here. Your grandpa will be staying with us, and we’ll do things nice and easy.” Ross hoped he could keep his word, prayed he would see nothing that would force him to traumatize this child further.

“No touch.” Sobbing loudly, Noah ducked his head and covered his face with shaking forearms, exposing the bruises Justine had mentioned. Bruises that appeared to be the fingerprints of a grown man.

The sight resurrected a memory of the saddest duty Ross had ever performed as a physician: a rape exam on a four-year-old boy, with a female police detective serving as a witness. He’d wanted to quit that day, probably would have if the detective—the woman who would later become his wife—had not convinced him that the two of them were helping, that if they could not bear to do it, a greater wrong would take place and the child could not begin to heal.

Where are you now, Anne, when I need you?

“Can you take your shirt off for me?” Ross asked gently.

Noah shook his head, his body so tense that the move looked puppetlike, his troubled expression reminding Ross of Justine’s.

“Your buttons don’t match up, son,” Ed Truitt said offhandedly. “And anyway, it’s dirty from all that crawling around back in the feed room. How ’bout let’s put something clean on. You like to feel clean, don’t you?”

Though Noah didn’t respond, he looked down to see his buttons were askew and started pulling at them, clearly agitated.

His grandfather took a couple of T-shirts on hangers from the closet. “You want this one or the blue one?”

But Ross’s attention was completely focused on Noah as he pulled off his shirt…

To reveal the rough hemp loop that dangled like a pendant around his neck.

When her father insisted on riding in the ambulance with Ross and Noah, Justine was too stunned to protest, too numbed by horror to do anything but gather her insurance information and mutely climb into the passenger seat of Gwen’s car.

“By now, Noah’s already sleeping from the sedative,” Gwen reassured her. “And he’s in the best of hands.”

But Justine had had all the placating she could handle. “Just whose hands was he in this afternoon, Gwen? And where the hell were you while some lunatic took my son?”

Gwen’s gaze jerked away, but not before Justine caught the gleam of moisture in her blue eyes.

“I’m sorry.” Justine brought a fisted hand up to her forehead. “So sorry. I’m mad at myself, that’s all. I’m the one who’s responsible for Noah.”

“You’re frightened and upset. Anger’s only natural,” Gwen said, reminding Justine that the younger woman had studied psychology at a private college that cost more in annual tuition than the average salary of a deputy. Which was only one of the factors that made Gwen Bollinger ridiculously overqualified for the position she’d accepted.

“That doesn’t make it right,” Justine told her.

“Apology accepted,” Gwen said. Still, she looked relieved when Roger Savoy intercepted them near the emergency room’s entrance and pulled Justine aside.

“Any news yet?” Justine’s hand trembled as she shoved a loose lock from her ponytail behind one ear. A sign of nervousness, she knew, a weakness Roger could exploit. But with her mind crammed with fear for her son, she couldn’t bring herself to care.

The deputy shook his head, then ushered her into a small lounge, a private room donors had furnished with sofas, plush chairs, and a television set. Barely inside the doorway, Justine balked, remembering the way the moss green walls had closed in on her after Lou died. Remembering that this was where the hospital placed the families of their most seriously ill patients. Where they parked those most likely to create a disturbance.

“You need to sit,” Roger urged her. “You’re in no condition to—”

“Noah’s my son,” she said. “My place is with him.”

Before stepping inside the ambulance, Ross had laid his hand on her arm and reassured her that Noah’s preliminary exam had uncovered no sign of severe physical trauma or sexual abuse. But what of the emotional? What of the damned noose Ross had shown her draped around her son’s neck and hidden beneath his shirt? She flashed onto the image, nausea coiling at her center.

Savoy’s grave look deepened. “You’d be better off waiting here now. You’re upset.”

“People keep freaking telling me that. You figure maybe I’ve forgotten?”

Savoy shook his head, the white patches at his temples looking as if they’d claimed more territory lately.

“Can’t figure much of anything about this,” he admitted. “Why anybody would go after first you and then your kid. How it might connect up to these suicides.”

“Suspicious fatalities,” Justine corrected. “Maybe we do have a killer. A killer clever enough to stage the deaths of three grown men.”

Roger met her gaze and held it for several seconds before nodding. “Has to be considered. Or reconsidered, in this case.”

“And crazy enough to come after both me and my kid.”

“What I can’t understand is why. With two of the three deaths already ruled suicides, why would he risk calling attention to—”

“I don’t give a damn why.” Once more, Justine pictured her finger squeezing the trigger of a gun shoved beneath a thickly whiskered chin. “All I want to know is who.”

Roger stepped back, alarm dawning in his blue eyes. “Justine. Sheriff Wofford.”

Confused, she stared back at him.

Roger cleared his throat and said, “You might want to pass me that weapon. Before…before you scare somebody.”

It was only then that she registered that her hand was clutching the grip of her gun. It remained in her holster, which she must have strapped on while Ross and her dad were in the bedroom with Noah. But she had no memory of doing so, no more than she had any conscious recollection of reaching for it as she spoke to Roger.

Yet she did remember something. A different conversation with her second-in-command at yesterday afternoon’s crime scene.

Suicides tend to cluster like that, he had told her. Lectured her, as insufferable as ever. Not uncommon to see a group of running buddies do themselves in, one by one.

Except this one’s no suicide, she heard herself answer, the memory so clear and true she didn’t doubt it for a second. Even though she couldn’t recall why she’d spoken those words with such conviction.

Shock rolled through her mind like thunder, long and ominous. She’d known for months that Roger despised her, known he was waiting for her to make one final misstep that would leave the department in his hands.

“Why?” she demanded. “Why did you ask yesterday, after I came to, if I’d informed Dee LeJeune of her son’s suicide? Why, when you knew damned well I was looking at this one as a murder?”

Rather than answering, Roger stared mutely at her gun hand, a dew of sweat erupting on his upper lip.

More than that, she saw the tightening of the muscles in his neck and shoulders. The tell, she thought, remembering what Lou, an unrepentant poker junkie, would have called it.

Savoy was readying himself to use force—or maybe simply to defend himself against her.

Was this what their professional rivalry would boil down to? With Noah a short distance away, needing her to offer comfort and stability, was she going to let this months-long pissing contest come to a head now?

Guilt shafted through her, swift and shocking as a bolt out of the blue. This was insane.

“Let’s both of us calm down,” she said. “Discuss this like adults.” Relaxing her own right hand, she waited for her deputy to follow suit.

Except he didn’t.

“You going to do the right thing?” A warning rattled through his voice. “You going to hand over that weapon before somebody gets hurt?”

She thought of how he’d spin the story of her “breakdown” later, how he’d use it to have her removed from office. And a new question flickered into being, a question of how far Roger might have gone to reclaim what he saw as his turf. How far anger and humiliation might have pushed him.

“I’m fine.” She forced her jaw to unclench, deliberately slowed her voice to speak in the tone of a professional. A superior issuing a warning of her own. “No need to worry, Deputy. About anything but your job.”

“This would’ve made Lou sick.” He shook his head, his words dripping with disgust. “You would, running his department down the fucking tubes like you have.”

“You’ll want to stop now, Roger. This isn’t the time or place to have this conversation, not with my son—”

“It’s your own damned fault. Can’t you see it? On the old man’s watch, no lowlife in this county would’ve dared to touch anyone in the department. And not even the lowest of the low would’ve ever dreamed of going after any lawman’s kid.”

Justine said nothing, thinking that it wouldn’t have happened during her father’s tenure, either, that criminals had had a healthy respect for both Lou Wofford and Ed Truitt.

“But why should anybody be afraid of you?” Roger’s face grew red as he spoke. “You’re not only miles out of your league; you’re stupid enough to get caught taking bribes.”

“But not stupid enough to listen to another minute of this,” she said bluntly. “You have pushed and pushed things, Roger, but this time you’re finished. Whether you want to resign or face termination for deliberately misleading me about a homicide investigation, your ass is gone. From my department, from this moment forward. I’ll need your badge.”

For several stunned seconds, he merely stared at her. “You…you can’t.”

“You may remember that you serve ‘at the pleasure of the sheriff,’” Justine said. “And this one’s not into masochism.”

His shock turned to a sneer. “You think for one damned minute you can handle it, handle those men and that department without me running interference? I’d like to see you—”

“Far as I can see, you’ve been the interference. And the others are either going to accept me or make it a hell of a lot easier to figure out which jobs I’ll have to cut to make the budget.” She imagined reassigning some of the deputies from the jail, the ones she’d have to lay off if she were forced to privatize it, to take the troublemakers’ places. They’d be grateful, their loyalty to her rather than a dead man who had planned to cut them. “Now I’ll ask you to take your damned hand away from that gun.”

She saw Roger’s tell a second time, saw such hatred in his eyes that some dark, self-destructive corner of her made Justine want to push him. Tempted her to see if she could provoke him into blowing her away.

Chapter Nine

Be aware that a halo has to fall only a few inches to be a noose.

—Dan McKinnon

Funny how it caught on, this idea of asphyxiation as an aphrodisiac. Back when hangings were a public affair, before recent, bullshit notions of political correctness pushed it underground, folks were embarrassed, or more likely titillated, by the discovery that about a third of men who got the noose offered the staring crowd one final, in-your-face salute.

(I’ve found that figure about right so far. Hart Tyson, no. Caleb LeJeune, no, but Jake Willets, feeble as he was, unmistakably yes. Not that I went out of my way to look.)

But then the strangest thought took hold, the crazy notion that half strangling yourself while taking care of business could heighten the experience, in more ways than one.

(That couldn’t be what you thought, with your pretty halter top, your short shorts, and your strappy golden sandals, was it?)

Thanks to this urban legend, something like a thousand poor suckers a year are found hanging dead and naked in showers or from scarves wrapped around their closet rods or doorknobs, a lot of these “victims” dumb-ass kids who never stopped to consider that they could actually die from such a pastime.

If they’d asked me, I could’ve told them they had the whole thing backward. Because it isn’t being hanged that’s so damned exciting; that’s only delusion.

There’s far more pleasure to be found in the touch of evil, in putting the noose around another human being’s neck, or better yet, inviting him to do it, and pushing the poor bastard off that final precipice.

Ross tapped at the door to the hospital’s family room. When no one answered, he gave a second rap and pushed it open.

Looking in, he stopped short and glanced from Justine to Savoy and back before fixing his gaze on the deputy. Or more precisely, on the hand now drifting away from his gun’s grip.

What the hell? It was all Ross could do to keep from thrusting himself between them—or doing something even crazier, such as taking a swing at an armed man.

“May I have a word with the sheriff?” Hostility honed his question to a razor’s edge. “A private word.”

With a shrug, Savoy sneered, saying, “She’s all yours, Doc,” as he strode toward the door.

“Your badge, Roger,” Justine told him. “You’ll need to leave it with me.”

His expression seething, Savoy jerked it from his uniform. “You want the goddamned thing? Then take it.”

Without another glance at Ross, Roger tossed the badge at her feet.

“And the gun,” she added. But it was too late. Roger was already slamming the door behind him.

“What’s going on?” Ross asked, his heart still pounding. “I could’ve sworn your deputy was about to shoot you.”

He reached for her, but she avoided his touch.

“Tell me about my son.” Flat and hard, Justine’s expression was a stop sign. Anyone else might have missed the desperation haunting her eyes, but she couldn’t fool him. “Justine. He might have killed you.”

“Forget him and tell me about Noah. Please.”

“Sound asleep for the next few hours, with your father watching over him. We’d like to keep him overnight for observation, but he doesn’t appear hurt physically, not beyond the bruising on his arm where he was grabbed.”

“You’re sure he wasn’t…that no one touched…?”

The pain in her voice prompted him to say he was sure, since this was primarily, though not one hundred percent, true. As relief flashed over her expression, he pulled her tight to his chest.

He felt her sharply indrawn breath, the way her body stiffened, her tension betrayed only by the slightest quivering beneath the surface of her skin. But an instant later, she was weeping, this strong woman he had never seen cry, as if his touch had melted away the levies holding back her tears.

Clutching him tightly, she sobbed quietly, stress pouring off her in hot waves. And of all things, Ross felt grateful—grateful that she’d trusted him enough to let him see her fall apart.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, barely knowing whether he was expressing compassion for what had happened with her son or apologizing for sending her away three and a half months earlier.

Some of the longest months of his life. Months that had convinced him she was wrong, dead wrong, when she’d claimed it had never been anything but sex between them. Sex with no hope of anything more.

She stopped crying, yet her trembling increased, as if she stood soaked before a cold wind. As if it took everything she had to stay silent.

Hugging her to him, he kissed her cheekbone. “Noah’s going to be all right. You’ll be all right.”

“Ross. It’s been so…” She looked up at him, her damp eyes speaking for her.

“I’ve missed you,” he admitted. “Missed you more than I ever believed I…”

He bent his head and kissed her, convinced it was his only chance to keep from saying the wrong thing again. His only chance to keep her from pulling away and rushing off to her child and her duties, or telling him she meant to dig up enough evidence to haul Laney straight to jail.

Instead of shoving him away, as he more than half expected, Justine made a small sound of surprise. Then, in an instant, all the tension he’d sensed knotted inside her exploded into the hot press of her wet mouth, the hard, sharp edges of her nails digging into his flesh. The press of curves he’d missed so damned badly against his instantaneous erection.

Forgetting where he was, Ross deepened the kiss and cupped her breast with one hand. Squeezed and heard a moan start deep in her throat, a sound that nearly brought him to a climax then and there.

But he wanted more, so much more. Wanted the unimpeded glide of bare skin against bare skin, the taste of her on his lips, the sound of his own name as she screamed it.

Wanted to forget these last few months had ever happened, that a wild leap in his chest could be anything but pure excitement.

The door cracked open. “Dr. Bollinger?”

Debbie Brown’s eyes widened, probably because one of his hands had found its way under Justine’s shirt.

“Oh! Excuse me.” The charge nurse’s face blossomed with color as she averted her gaze. “I just…I thought you’d want to know…”

“Oh, shit.” Justine extricated herself, her own face flushing. “What in God’s name are we…Ross? Ross, what is it? Are you—”

“Nothing.” Moisture beaded over his lip and his pulse thrummed like a helicopter in his ears. “I’m fine. We’re fine.”

With a guilty glance at Debbie, he added, “The sheriff and I just need a little privacy. To finish talking.”

His breathing shallow, he struggled to steady himself, hating the way both women looked at him as if he might keel over any second, as if he might add another generation’s worth of ammunition to the rumor that the men of his family were all doomed to die young.

Looking at the nurse, Justine said, “I’d really appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention this to anyone. It was just…I was upset, and Dr. Bollinger, he, um, he hugged me to calm me down.”

Lame, lame, lame. She could have kicked herself.

With a glance at Ross’s hand, Debbie raised one reddish eyebrow, a wry commentary on the fact that he’d been touching Justine’s breast. But Justine stared down the nurse, who frowned briefly and nodded.

“Sure,” the nurse said. “I didn’t see a thing.”

Turning crisply, Debbie Brown retreated, disapproval trailing in her wake. And Justine wondered if she had made another enemy.

“She won’t spread it around, will she?” Justine asked.

Ross winced, then shook his head. “More likely she’ll just give me hell about it later.”

Justine breathed a sigh. “Be sure, please, Ross. Talk to her if you need to. I can’t have this going any farther.”

He hesitated, looking uncharacteristically uncertain of himself. “Are you sure about that, Justine? Because maybe if it weren’t such a big secret, maybe then we could—”

She shook her head. “Right now I don’t have energy for anything except my son.”

For a moment, she thought he might press further. Instead, he nodded, leading her down the corridor and jabbing the elevator button with what looked like excessive force. “Of course, Noah’s your priority.”

“Noah and these murders. Because there has to be a connection.”

At the sound of a soft chime, the elevator doors slid open. They stepped inside, and Justine wrinkled her nose at the harsh odor of institutional disinfectants. Ross pushed the button for the second floor.

“So you’re admitting now they’re murders?” Ross asked as the elevator lurched into motion.

Justine nodded and shrugged. “Whatever they are, they’ve certainly got my full attention. And until I have them solved—until I figure out who the hell was messing with my child, I can’t afford distractions. Any distractions.”

“I’m sorry. I never should have…” He looked at her, misery radiating from his gray eyes. “It won’t happen again.”

She felt the welling of regret, the loneliness that had yawned before her like a black chasm since Lou’s death. But she couldn’t give in to it, couldn’t afford the distraction—or risk dragging Ross down, too.

Or having him die on me.

The elevator doors whooshed open, and Ross gestured for her to precede him.

“You shouldn’t even want to,” Justine told him as they walked, “not with your health the way it is. And not with your cousin wrapped up in this.”

“My health’s not the issue,” he growled. His voice softening, he added, “but I understand. We both have family obligations right now.”

He stopped and gestured toward a closed door. “Would you like me to come inside with you?”

“Do you need to check on Noah?”

He shook his head. “His pediatrician’s taken over his care.”

She gave him a long look. “Then I’m sure there are other places you should be.”

He nodded. “Nowhere more important.”

“Thanks, Ross. I appreciate your coming to the house more than I can say, and everything you’ve done for Noah—it’s wonderful. You’re wonderful. But I think it’s better if we don’t push this, under the circumstances…I think you had it right when you said it wasn’t working.”

“It wasn’t working the way things were,” he told her, “but that doesn’t mean it couldn’t ever. Not if we went about things differently. Started over, on the right foot, in full view of everybody.”

The way he looked at her made her want to take back what she’d just said. Made her wonder what she’d thrown away, all in the name of preserving the sinking ship of her career.

Turning from her, he retreated down the corridor, his footsteps—and his presence—fading from Justine’s life. Leaving her feeling as desolate as the lunar landscape, marked forever by the man who had once sought to stake his claim.

As Ross finished Noah’s chart, Debbie Brown slipped behind his elbow and leaned forward.

“I expected better of you, Doctor,” she whispered. “Far better.”

Ross grimaced. Since she’d caught him with Justine an hour earlier, the nurse had been treating him to the tight-lipped, laser-eyed disapproval she normally reserved for “Dr. Doper,” as she so often called Kenneth Fleming behind his back.

Ross turned around to face her. “Please don’t tell me I’m stuck now with ‘Dr. Groper’ for a nickname.”

Though he’d hoped for a smile, Debbie’s mouth only tightened in response. She reached up to adjust the clip holding back her auburn hair, snapping its fanged jaws neatly into place.

“Listen to me, Debbie. It’s not as if I’d—” Ross cut himself off. He liked Debbie, worked well with her, and hated letting her believe he would be sleazy enough to take advantage of a patient’s mother. Better to confide, he thought, though Justine wouldn’t like it. “We’ve kept it quiet to this point, but Justine and I…we were close at one time. And I still…I care very much about what happens to her and her family.”

“That woman?” Debbie shook her head, looking even unhappier with this new idea. “Are you crazy?”

Ross smiled. “I’ve been asking myself that for months. But it’s over now.”

Debbie snorted. “That little scene I walked in on, that did not look over.”

It hadn’t felt over to Ross either. Still didn’t feel that way, though he suspected Justine wouldn’t have participated if she’d been in her right mind.

Had he been in his?

“That woman’s not what you think,” the nurse said.

Ross frowned at her. “Why do you say that?”

Debbie shook her head, her expression radiating distaste. “For one thing, everyone’s saying she’s a damned crook, handpicked for office by the powers that be. But then, you’re a Bollinger. Could be you know more about that than I do.”

Ross shook his head. “My family’s not into politics as blood sport. We retired from that field of battle a couple of generations back.”

Ross’s lumber-baron grandfather might have spent a lifetime trying to run the county with his money, but his descendants limited their public involvement to funding worthy local causes through the auspices of the Chester R. Bollinger Foundation. Even so, Ross was uncomfortable with Debbie’s reminder of Justine’s reputation. It had been the great black hole in their relationship, a void into which his questions fell, never to be answered.

“Even if you don’t care if she’s crooked,” Debbie told him, “I’ve seen that woman at work, right in this ER. Interviewing wounded suspects, jackhammering her way into their heads. She’s relentless. Reminds me of a shark, with those flat, black eyes.”

Shuddering, the nurse rubbed her arms.

“She has a job to do. A tough job.” But even as Ross said it, he thought of how Justine had been with his cousin. Seemingly sympathetic, in that case, but nonetheless unyielding. Cruel almost, considering Laney’s recent trauma and the break-in.

Debbie shook her head. “I know that personality. I’ve lived with it myself. People like that never question their goals, never think twice about doing whatever they have to do to achieve them. And they don’t give a damn who they have to barrel over, if you get in their way.”

Ross had known Debbie’s divorce had been contentious, had heard rumors the marriage was abusive, but he hadn’t realized just how bitter she remained.

Abruptly, her expression softened, moisture turning the blue of her eyes translucent. Taking his hand in hers, she squeezed it. “After watching your heart get shocked out of Vfib, I can’t stand the thought of a woman like that breaking it. So, please, Ross, please be careful. You’re the best friend I have here, and I don’t want to see you hurt.”

Uncomfortable with the contact, he returned the squeeze before reclaiming his hand. “I’ll be careful,” he promised, even as he wondered if Debbie Brown imagined going from being his friend to his next lover.

“What do you mean, she’s not here?” Ross asked Laney’s oldest sister, Trudy, who was wearing a pair of rubber gloves.

Left to her own devices, thirty-five-year-old Trudy scrubbed everything that stood still long enough. She claimed it helped her deal with her excess nervous energy, but the prevailing opinion within the family was that she’d always been a neat freak. She certainly had the cleanest pair of toddlers in East Texas, their soft, café-au-lait skin as spotless as her own.

Trudy pushed a fringe of dark hair from her brown eyes, puffed her plump cheeks, and blew out a breath. “Gone, can you believe that? Couldn’t even wait for me to get here.”

A memory of the noose hanging in this kitchen shafted through his thoughts, lightning-swift. “The door, was it still locked? Was there any sign of a forced entry?”

Trudy shook her head. “Nothing like that—she left a note. Said she’d gone out to spend time with real friends. Like her sisters and her cousins don’t count. Like her own family doesn’t mean a darned thing.”

Her eyes misting with hurt, she added, “But that’s my baby sister for you. Never did appreciate a thing we did for her. Never thought of anything except that music of hers. That ambition.”

“She’s been through a hell of a time lately,” Ross reminded Trudy. “Seems we ought to cut her a little slack for now.”

Trudy fisted one hand on the full curve of her hip. “I might feel more inclined if she’d at least cleaned up after herself in the kitchen.”

Ross thought guiltily that he’d been the slacker who’d left his rinsed dishes in the sink, but he had no intention of getting into it with his cousin. Especially not until he figured out where Laney had gone. “Who would Laney be visiting? With Jake and everybody from the band dead, who else would she turn to?”

Trudy shook her head, irritation tugging at her full mouth. “I have no idea who she hangs around with. Riffraff from the bar, most likely. No one she would ever bother introducing me to.”

Small wonder Laney confided in him rather than her sisters. Though Ross was at a loss to name any more of her friends, either. “Let me give her a call.”

He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and quickly tried her number. Moments later, he and Trudy turned their heads toward a sound from the back bedroom.

It was Laney’s cell phone, ringing where she’d left it. Leaving him no idea whatsoever how to reach her.

And leaving him increasingly worried when Laney failed to return home throughout the long, long night.

Chapter Ten

If we were brought to trial for the crimes we have committed against ourselves, few would escape the gallows.

—Paul Eldridge

Wednesday, October 21

Death slips in on stealth’s feet, as subtly as a swamp snake gliding over grass. But it comes this time not to the lake’s shore, nor beside the quiet bayous, but to a misted morning meadow in the leaden hours before dawn.

An elderly mare lifts her gray head, ears pricking toward the leafy crunch of something moving through the brush outside the field where she is pastured. Something large, and coming closer. Flaring her nostrils, she catches a scent that sets her quivering: a burnt-sharp odor overlaid with blood. She starts at the sound of a human voice, one so harsh and sudden it launches a covey of fat, brown ground birds to the air.

As they whirl away, an upright and a slumped form materialize out of the dimness, and finally, flight instinct drives the mare forward, and she gallops, heedless of all obstacles before her. She barely feels the sting as she snaps through three strands of barbed wire, and she doesn’t slow at all.

Later, she stands trembling, her sleek hide torn and dripping, the color of her bright blood cutting through the fog. But the mare at least will heal, will live to carry riders and bear the foal that swells her belly.

While the awkward burden left by the intruders can do no more than stain the withered grass.

Justine was already mainlining her second cup of coffee by the time her father called at eight o’clock that morning.

“Get any sleep?” His words came out a mixture of gruffness and concern.

“I should’ve been the one to stay with Noah, not you.”

“I’ve told you, you don’t have to do everything on your own. You have my help for as long as you need it, probably longer than you’ll want it. I stayed last night so you could get some rest. So did you?”

Staring out the kitchen window, Justine watched a trio of buzzards swirl above the back pasture, beneath the morning’s threatening, low sky. Probably some armadillo had bought it, or perhaps a deer or feral hog.

“Some,” Justine answered, “between phone calls to my deputies. I had to keep up with the investigation—not that they’ve found anything much so far.”

There was no way she could simply delegate and forget about things, especially not with Noah involved. She thought about how small and vulnerable he’d looked, curled beneath the white hospital sheets. For a long time last night she’d sat there beside him, stroking his hair and whispering promises that she would keep him safe forever. Watching through a haze of tears until her father had insisted she return home.

“I thought we had agreed you were going to let Roger handle things.” Her father’s voice was stern now. “At least until you’re back on your feet again.”

“We’re talking about Noah, Dad. Not some stranger’s suicide.” Setting down her mug of coffee, Justine took a deep breath and continued. “Besides, I fired my chief deputy last night.”

“You did what?” her father demanded. “When was this? And why?”

“Never mind that jackass. How’s Noah this morning?”

Her father paused a beat—long enough to let her know he hadn’t missed the change of subject. “Getting dressed to head home, so he can get the right breakfast for a Wednesday. I can tell you, that boy was thoroughly pissed when the attendant brought him pancakes instead of cereal with sliced bananas.” Her father chuckled. “Threw a walleyed fit, let ’em know there’s nothing wrong with his lungs. Doctor released him after that, said there’s no reason to keep him any longer.”

Justine smiled, oddly proud of her son’s skills when it came to asserting his wishes. Or maybe she was simply relieved he hadn’t been using those skills on her.

“So you’re bringing him straight home, right?” she asked. She couldn’t wait to get her son back where she could keep an eye on him.

“Sure I am, but he’s already making noises about school and pointing to the clock. It’s after ten, and he’s convinced he ought to be there.”

Justine’s heart sank. Though she knew she couldn’t keep him out of school forever, she couldn’t imagine sending him back less than a day after he’d been grabbed. At the very least, she wanted to march down to the school and have a come-to-Jesus meeting with the principal and teachers about keeping a better eye on the students during dismissal time, particularly those with special needs.

“I’ll talk to him when you get home, tell him there’s a teacher workday.” She hated lying to him, but it was the only way she had a prayer of getting him to rest.

With Noah home and safe, she’d be able to focus her attention on checking law enforcement databases for any suspicious hangings within a five-hundred-mile radius. Because if she really was looking at three murders staged to look like suicides, it was all too possible that this was part of something bigger.

Part of something guaranteed to get the FBI in here to yank the investigation out of her hands—unless she beat them to the killer.

An unexpected movement outside the window attracted her attention. Something large and gray, with gleaming red. In spite of the weak light, Justine realized it was the mare, Moonshadow. Injured, perhaps badly, and clearly terrified.

“I have to hang up now,” Justine explained quickly. “Horse is loose—she’s bleeding. I’d better go see what’s the matter with her.”

“I’ll bring Noah and get there soon as I can,” her father said. “Be careful. A hurt horse is a dangerous horse, and the last thing you need is another kick to the head.”

After swallowing one last, cool mouthful of coffee, Justine grabbed a denim jacket to throw over her long-sleeved T-shirt and headed for the back door. At the last moment, she hesitated, went back to the bedroom, and put on her shoulder holster on the off chance that her child wasn’t the only thing some bastard had dared mess with.

“And I would so dearly love to catch you on my property,” she muttered through clenched teeth.

Shoving her cell phone in her pocket, she hurried outside and jogged in the direction where she had last seen Moonshadow, in the deep gloom beneath some live oaks. The mare was nowhere in sight. But Justine found blood spotting the leaf litter, and by following the trail, she tracked the horse to where she stood, head down and quivering, not far from the gate leading to her pasture.

Justine spotted several cuts crisscrossing the mare’s chest and forelegs. Linear in nature, they told the story of a panicked charge through barbed wire. Which was strange for an uncommonly laid-back twenty-one-year-old mare. What could have frightened her so badly? Coyotes or some wild dogs? Or had there been a big snake?

“Easy, girl,” Justine coaxed as she approached. “Let’s get you checked out, sweetheart. Just a little closer, now.”

Justine came within twelve yards before Moonshadow whinnied and spooked, loping some distance down the fence line. Again and again, the two of them repeated this dance, Justine approaching and crooning soft words, the mare bolting to what she saw as a safe distance.

And all the while, buzzards spiraled near the center of the pasture as thunder muttered in the distance. If there had been a predator, Justine hoped Moonshadow had kicked in its head and killed it.

After three attempts, Justine retrieved a bucket of sweet feed to coax the mare nearer. As she reached for Moonshadow’s halter, the ringing of the cell phone in her pocket sent the horse racing away.

Cursing, Justine pulled out her phone and flipped it open. “Wofford here,” she snapped before reminding herself not to take out her frustrations on the caller.

“Justine, it’s Ross,” he said in a voice that sent heat coursing through her veins. Embarrassment, that was all, over their shared kiss last evening. Regret over a mistake that would never be repeated.

“Laney’s missing. She didn’t come home last night.” The words tumbled from Ross in a worried rush. “She left a note, said she’d be with friends, but she forgot her cell phone. I have no idea who to call, or who she’d be with other than the guys from her band.”

Justine breathed a silent prayer that Laney hadn’t gone to join them, that the lure of self-destruction hadn’t cinched tight around her neck. “I thought you said she wouldn’t be left alone.”

“When Calvin came to get me yesterday, I left her sleeping at the house. But it should have been for only a few minutes. Laney’s sister Trudy was on her way there.”

“So she was gone when Trudy got there?”

“Right. And Laney left a note, which didn’t exactly shock me. Trudy drives her crazy over her late hours, boyfriends, you name it. Before she went to bed, Laney was complaining that she couldn’t take her big sister harping on her right now. Kicking her when she was down—that’s how Laney put it.”

“Is this like her, to run off and worry people? Is this something Laney’s done before?”

As Ross hesitated, a breeze kicked up and blew Justine’s hair in front of her eyes. Tucking it behind her ears, she added, “I don’t mean to imply—rd;

“I understand; you have to ask. To tell you the truth, ordinarily I might say this was like Laney, getting pissed and taking off to spend the night somewhere else. But she knew how worried we were. She must have known how frantic we’d be by now. My God, with the other members of her band all dead…”

Justine wished she could reach through the phone to him to offer comfort. But right now, Ross needed a sheriff, not a lover, and particularly not a lover he’d cast off. “Any reason to believe she’s been taken against her will?”

“None at all. The house was locked up, and everything looked in order. Nothing seems strange about her note or the handwriting. If it turns out that girl’s just somewhere sulking, I swear I’m going to wring her neck.”

“I understand completely, especially after yesterday with Noah. We’re going to find your cousin safe, too. We’re going to bring her home.”

“You can’t promise me that, Justine. Some bastard left a noose for her. What if she’s—” He huffed out a sigh. “What am I going to tell her mother?”

Justine thought of Caleb LeJeune’s mother, thought of all the mothers whose hearts she had broken. Surely Ross, as an emergency room physician, had done the same as well. But when it came to one’s own family, there was no such thing as professional distance, no way to keep the words’ sharp edges from eviscerating one’s soul.

“You can’t go there, Ross, not unless you’re forced to. For right now, let’s focus on those things you can do.”

“Like what?” For the first time since she’d known him, she heard the boy behind the man’s voice, his relief at having someone to direct him for a change, someone who ostensibly knew better.

“First, I’m going to need any information you have on whatever vehicle Laney could be driving. Does she have her own car?”

“Sure,” Ross answered. “She drives a Chevy. A little red Cobalt, about two years old. I, uh, I bought it for her, so I probably have the papers with the license number somewhere. ”

Justine wasn’t surprised.

“That’s good,” she said. “As soon as you get me the information, we’ll put out an APB on it. Now I want you to open up your cousin’s cell phone. Check the call log for me.”

“I already did that when she didn’t show by midnight. Her last few calls were to me or to her agent—but those were days ago.”

“Her agent? What’s his name?” Justine wished she’d brought something to write with, though she normally didn’t take notes while chasing livestock.

“It’s Simon Cordero, out of Austin. Handles bookings for bands all over this part of the country.”

“Have you called him?”

“I have, and he hasn’t heard from her. He hadn’t heard, either, about Caleb’s death.”

“How’d he take the news? Surprised?” Justine asked.

Ross hesitated before answering. “Sounded like it, and he seemed really worried about Laney. I get the feeling she’s a special project of his. Says he’s coming down for Caleb’s funeral so he can talk to her.”

“A special project…” Justine echoed. “Are you at home or at your aunt’s house?”

“I’m still at Aunt Ava’s. Trudy and I both spent the night here, waiting—and racking our brains and going through her phone’s contact list to see if any name jumped out. Used the landline to call most of the local numbers, too, but no one’s heard from her.”

“And her e-mail, did you check that?” Justine asked, hoping she would get a crack at it as well.

“Couldn’t figure out her password.”

Justine saw his comment as an opening, but she didn’t want to appear too eager. “I’ll send a couple deputies right over. And I’ll drop by as soon as I can, too. I’d come now, but I’m—”

“It’s fine. I understand. You have your own problems. I should’ve called your office in the first place.”

“I’m glad you called me,” she said, thinking of how she had turned to him yesterday when her son needed help. “I want you to know, whatever’s happened between us, you’ve always got a friend in my department.” She was proud of how she put it in the past tense. Whatever’s happened between us.

“Friendship’s not what I was after with you,” Ross admitted, “but as a consolation prize, it’ll have to do.”

Justine blew out a long breath before ending the call and then phoning the office as she’d promised. By the time she finished, Moonshadow had calmed down enough to allow her to approach.

After giving the horse a few pats and rewarding her with sweet feed, Justine led her to a hitching post outside the stable. Once she had secured the mare, Justine examined the wounds carefully. Assured that none were serious, she washed away the blood with a clean rag she’d dipped in warm water.

By the time she finished slathering on antibiotic ointment and wiping her hands, Justine’s father arrived with Noah. “What happened?”

Justine shook her head. “Ran through the fencing for some reason, but at least the cuts aren’t too bad. I don’t think we’ll need a vet.”

Her attention had already migrated to her son, though he’d turned from her already. He stood close to the wire and stared out over the pasture, his attention fixed on the reddish heads and brown-black shoulders of the buzzards bobbing above and below the ragged line of grasses. Something about the way Noah watched them set the back of her neck tingling with awareness.

“What is that?” Justine’s father asked. “Something dead out there?”

The tingling followed the channel of her backbone and spread to her limbs.

“Probably some animal.” Justine untied Moonshadow from the hitching post. “Let me take Moonshadow to her stall and then I’ll check it out.”

Thunder murmured, closer this time, and her dad said, “Cold front’s blowing in—real cold one for this early in the year. Heard something about it on the news this morning.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her son slip between two strands of wire. “Hey, Noah,” she called, her uneasiness settling deeper. “Why don’t you stick with us? Want to help me feed Moonshadow?”

But whether Noah was drawn to the clacks and hisses of the squabbling buzzards or simply didn’t want to listen, he took off running, waving his arms, in the direction of the birds.

“Get back here,” Justine shouted after him. “Here, Dad, hold the lead rope for me.”

“I’ve got him.” Her father was already off and running to let himself inside the fence.

Justine put up the mare, who seemed to have recovered from her scare. In spite of more low thunder, the horse munched contentedly at the alfalfa Justine dropped into her hayrack.

When she left the stable, she felt the kiss of the first light raindrops and caught a faint flicker of lightning in the distance, beyond the silhouetted line of trees.

Then she spotted her father running, his strong arms holding Noah. And then she heard her father shouting, “That’s no animal, Justine. Call nine-one-one right now.”

And all the while, her son was babbling, “No touch, no touch, bad touch…”.

Chapter Eleven

We must, indeed, all hang together, or, most assuredly, we shall all hang separately.

—Benjamin Franklin

“We need an ambulance,” Justine’s father repeated as he placed Noah’s hand in hers. “He’s still breathing, barely. It’s Roger. Your deputy, Savoy.”

Her father raced back into the pasture at great speed for a man of his years, but Justine stood rooted to the spot. His words made no sense to her. What did he mean—

“Justine, move!“ he bellowed, glancing at her with a look of disgust before dropping to his knees and pushing down with both hands. “Appears there’s two gunshot wounds here. He’s barely holding on.”

Justine’s inertia shattered. Whipping out her phone with one hand, she dialed 911 as Noah squirmed and wailed, not so much in terror, she thought, as out of the desire to break free and go back to his grandfather.

Over the sound of her child’s cries, she gave the location and ordered the dispatcher to send help. “Give me everything you have: ambulance, deputies, firefighters for manpower. We’ve got one of ours hurt bad here. Officer down. Officer down.”

As she flipped the phone closed, Noah pulled loose. But instead of sprinting for the pasture, as she had expected, he took off running for the stable, where he’d been found the day before.

The rain began in earnest, not a cloudburst but enough to soak through clothes in a few minutes. Enough to chill a downed man, or to make a mud hole of a crime scene.

Justine hesitated, torn between the need to go catch Noah and the duty to find out what, if anything, she could do to help save Roger Savoy’s life.

But what if whoever had shot Roger remained nearby? What if he was close enough to grab Noah again—presuming the shooter was the same person who had taken her son the day before?

Choosing her priority, she called to her father, “Help’s on the way. Let me just grab Noah.”

Red faced, her father nodded her way, his upper body bobbing repeatedly as he did CPR compressions. In the rain, his white hair melted down atop his head.

“God, Roger, you can’t die,” Justine said as she ran. “Please don’t let him.” She wasn’t sure whether it was prayer or fervent hope, but whatever she had thought of Roger, she knew she damned well meant it. Because his death would mean yet another failure, the failure in her sacred duty to keep all of her men safe. It would mean as well that someone in Preston County was targeting all of law enforcement, and not just her.

Sure enough, she found her son hiding in the feed room, though this time he’d crouched behind hay bales instead of sliding underneath the pallet. He stared up at her, his brown eyes liquid. “Bad touch,” he repeated, sounding small and lost.

Though she knew from experience that he wouldn’t like it, Justine couldn’t help herself. Pulling her son into her arms, she clutched him in a damp embrace, not so much for his sake, but her own. Because she needed strength to face this crisis.

And she knew her strength alone wouldn’t be enough to see her through.

From the dark recesses of memory, an echo of her brother’s last words reached her, floating on the acrid smoke that still threatened to choke her, even after all these years.

You’ll never make it, Justine! Turn back. Turn back—don’t try!

Ross woke to find Deputy Paul Miller, whom he’d known since high school, standing over him along with a second deputy. Embarrassed to have been caught dozing on the couch after last night’s exhausting vigil, Ross stood with a grimace and glanced at Trudy, who shrugged one rounded shoulder.

“I thought one of us might as well get some rest,” she said without a trace of martyrdom. “And you really looked like you could use it.”

Outside, the rain continued, tapping lightly at the windows, darkening the day.

“Thanks,” Ross told Trudy before shaking hands with each of the deputies in turn. “I appreciate your coming, Paul…” He glanced at the name tag of the taller man, a beefy sort, mid-forties, before adding, “Deputy Vaughn.”

“Finally,” Trudy murmured, glancing at her watch. But judging from the way she kept looking down, Ross suspected she was itching to ask the deputies to leave their shoes on the front porch.

Vaughn pulled off his hat, revealing short red hair frizzed by static and a ruddy face to match. Spotted with rainwater, Paul’s hat remained on, but in the shadow beneath its wide brim, his eyes narrowed, and his thick muscles tensed.

Something was wrong, Ross sensed. Something more than Laney running off to see a friend. “You’ve found her?” he asked.

Alive, he prayed. Alive and uninjured. But instinct told him she was unharmed, for he knew Paul well enough to sense hostility, not sympathy, in his expression. What could Laney have done to make another enemy in the department? Or had their chief deputy’s suspicion of her swept through his comrades like a virus?

Sure enough, Paul took the lead, his mouth twisting with contempt as he said, “We haven’t found your cousin, but we’ve found Roger Savoy—shot.”

“Savoy? When? Where?” Ross couldn’t wrap his brain around it. “Is he—”

Trudy burst out, “I’m sorry to hear about your deputy, but I don’t understand. What could this possibly have to do with my sister?”

Ross felt heat rush to his face. “You’re not suggesting Laney’s involved with one of your men getting hurt?”

Vaughn shook his head, regret weighing down his next words. “Roger’s dead. He died at the sheriff’s.”

“The sheriff’s? This happened at Justine’s place?” Images whipped through Ross’s mind: Savoy’s hand on his gun, his badge flashing to the floor as he threw it near Justine’s feet. Hatred in his voice, his eyes, rage rising like heat waves off of August asphalt.

“What does this have to do with Laney?” Trudy repeated.

Paul Miller glared at her. “The last call Roger made was to a phone registered to Elaine Thibodeaux. Last night, at two forty-five a.m. Elaine’s your sister’s real name, isn’t it, ma’am?”

Trudy’s color deepened. “Don’t you ‘ma’am’ me. Not when you’re standing here suggesting that my baby sister—”

“That’s ridiculous,” Ross interrupted before Trudy’s temper could get her into trouble. “Laney left her phone here. It’s been here all night. See?” He gestured to the small, some-what battered-looking cell phone beside him on the coffee table.

“You haven’t heard it ringing?” Paul asked. “We’ve been calling her for hours.”

Ross shook his head. “Calling what number?”

Rather than answering, Deputy Vaughn frowned. “Mind if I take a look?”

As Vaughn began pushing buttons, Paul asked, “Can you think of any reason Miss Thibodeaux might have more than one cell phone?”

Trudy shook her head. “I can’t see her spending the money to do that. Are you positive you have the right Thibodeaux? There are more than a few of us around here.”

“You can be sure we’ll double-check,” Miller said. “But if we do confirm it was her phone, and that the time of the call lines up with the time of the shooting…no matter what, we’re going to want to question that girl.”

An ugly new idea ripped through Ross, reawakening last night’s fears. “Are you sure my cousin’s not another victim? Have you searched the area where your deputy was found?”

“We have men combing the whole property. They would’ve found her by now if she were there.”

“I need to speak to Sheriff Wofford,” Ross said.

Vaughn looked up from Laney’s cell. “Savoy didn’t call this phone, and she didn’t call him either. Last outgoing call on the log is from five days ago. I don’t see Roger’s number on her contacts list, either.”

“Then she must have another phone,” Paul said, clearly trying to hammer a square peg into logic’s round hole.

“I need to speak to your sheriff,” Ross repeated, more insistently this time.

“You can’t.” Paul’s eyes were flint-hard. “She’s tied up at the crime scene.”

“Either that,” Vaughn added, “or she’s on her way to break the news to Savoy’s wife.”

Justine frowned at her kitchen clock and looked across the table at Calvin Whittaker and Larry Crane, whom she’d asked to take her statement. Upstairs, her dad was entertaining Noah, though she knew he was itching to show all the deputies, from the two with her to those outside collecting evidence, how a murder investigation should be run.

She wondered if, despite the discovery of the noose around Savoy’s neck, her father would have bagged her hands if it were his scene, would have checked her thoroughly for gunshot residue and blowback from a close-range shooting. Though no one had dared ask her, Justine had changed her clothes and bagged those she’d been wearing before turning them over to a deputy for processing in the hope that this voluntary act would cut a little of the tension.

“We’d better wrap this up now,” she told Larry and Calvin. “If I don’t get to Mrs. Savoy soon, she’ll hear the news somewhere else.”

As awkward as the situation was, Justine owed it to the woman to face her in person, to offer whatever comfort she might. She’d sternly warned everyone on the scene not to call, text, or speak to anyone about this murder. Which ought to give her about a forty-five-minute head start over gossip if she was lucky.

Larry flipped shut the steno pad he’d been using for his notes and ran his hand across his comb-over, which had the unfortunate tendency to peel back and expose the shiny pallor underneath. “You want me to come with you?”

“Or I could go, ma’am,” Calvin offered, his eyes no less worshipful in spite of the body in the pasture.

She shook her head. “Thanks, gentlemen, but I need you to do something else. Something incredibly important, though I can tell you it’s not likely to make you a whole lot of friends in the department.”

Larry tipped a rueful smile and shrugged. “Can’t hardly get less, anyhow.”

Justine thought of all the garbage Larry had taken since she’d known him, from endless cracks about his appearance to incredibly crass jokes about his manhood when his wife began fertility treatments. But his popularity had hit an all-time low when he’d stood up for Justine, something Savoy had called “a deal with the she-devil.”

“You’ve got me, Deputy,” Calvin told him.

She rewarded both men with a nod of approval. “I’d like you two to dig deep into Roger’s recent activities. Calvin, I’ll need you to box up the contents of his desk and get ’em inventoried. ”

Calvin’s face fell. “We’re cleaning out his desk already?”

“It’s critical we try to nail down any possible leads. Cases he’s been working, recent contacts and appointments. Anything that might give us a clue what he’s been up to.” Other than attracting buzzards out in my pasture. “We need to secure the information before everyone in the department starts pawing through it.”

“Can I take the pictures to his family?” Calvin asked, referring to the prominent photo display of Savoy’s wife, two grown sons, and his pride and joy, his first grandchild, a little girl only a few months old.

Justine nodded. “I’m sure Mrs. Savoy will appreciate that. And while you’re there, you’ll need to collect any files or case notes he had at home—I’m interested in his calendar especially. Just try to be sensitive about the way you do it.”

“I sure will,” Calvin promised. “I know them, Sheriff. Their son, anyway.”

“What about me?” Larry asked.

“I’ll need you to speak to Savoy’s friends and relations,” Justine said. “As discreetly as you can. You know what to ask, right?”

Larry nodded grimly, having done the same sort of digging on other murder victims. “What about subpoenas?” he asked. “For phone records and bank accounts?”

“Write up the paperwork and get it to Judge Moore. We need to move on this fast.”

Unless they quickly found the killer, Justine knew she’d feel the heat, especially considering her past relationship with Savoy and the still-unsolved mystery involving her joint bank account with Lou.

Twenty minutes later, Justine was on her way to Lake Havens Realty, where she’d called to confirm Roger’s wife was working. As she pulled into the parking lot of a long modular building with a fake log-cabin exterior, Justine steeled herself for what she feared would be the thorniest, most awkward death notification of her career.

Marilyn Savoy didn’t make it any easier. As Justine wiped her feet and walked into the long, open area with its bank of desks and framed posters featuring gorgeous lake views, the thin, pantsuited blonde turned her back to speak to a young couple—but not before Justine caught the contempt on the woman’s face.

Ignoring curious stares from a grandmotherly-looking type and the older couple browsing through brochures at Marilyn’s desk, Justine forged ahead. “Mrs. Savoy?” she said softly. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I need to speak to—”

“I have nothing to say to you.” If the icy tone weren’t enough, Marilyn Savoy’s glare made it clear she’d rather claw out Justine’s eyes and feed them to her than have a conversation.

The young woman clutched her husband’s hand, and the two exchanged a look of supreme discomfort. Across the open area, the older woman whispered something to her customers and rose from her seat, her eyes worried behind her cat’s-eye glasses.

“Is there someplace private we can go?” Justine looked toward a darkened, glassed-in office cubicle. “Perhaps in there, if these folks wouldn’t mind—”

“After what you did to Roger? He told me what happened at the hospital last night—how you almost—”

“Marilyn, please.” Justine thought, She has no idea, no clue I’m about to change her life forever. “Let’s go into your office. This is about Roger, and I’m afraid it’s serious.”

Chameleon-quick, the woman’s face turned pale, alarmingly stark beneath her fair hair. “What? What are you saying?” Rooted to the spot, she seemed to have lost all awareness of her customers, who were attempting to move away discreetly.

Justine took a deep breath, struggling to find the right words. “I’m very sorry, but there was a shooting sometime last night—”

“No. He’s finishing his paperwork, he told me. Tidying things up—because that’s the kind of lawman he is—even after you fired him.”

“Roger’s dead. He’s gone.” Gently but firmly, Justine forced the worst out. Willed Marilyn Savoy to absorb it. Outside, the rain beat a snare drum’s rhythm against the building’s metal roof, and the day dimmed, darkening the windows.

“No. It’s not true. I always knew you hated us, because of the election. But this—you lying bitch.” Hand rising as if to strike, the woman advanced on her.

“Don’t.” Justine hated to speak sharply, but her tone stopped Marilyn in her tracks. “This isn’t helping. Please, come sit down. Your friend here will bring you some water.”

Justine glanced at the older woman, who nodded, looking grateful to be assigned something she could do.

“And we’ll call someone to be with you—or would you like me to take you home now? We can talk about it on the—”

“You. You’re the one who killed him.” Marilyn Savoy’s words reverberated in the echo chamber of the building as her pale face swiftly took on color.

“We don’t know who shot your husband,” Justine explained patiently, “but I promise you, we’re going to find out. I’m making it my top priority.”

“You expect me to believe that? After working my Roger half to death with overtime, then firing the man who should’ve had your job?”

Looks of profound discomfort passed among those forced to listen.

“I never forced your husband to work overtime,” Justine said, though she suspected arguing was pointless. Right now, Roger’s wife needed her fury to hold off the pain, if only briefly. “In fact, I’ve warned him against it. Several times, of late.”

“You lying bitch,” Marilyn repeated, her face reddening, her eyes glazing with unshed tears.

The older agent wrapped a plump arm around Marilyn’s shoulder. “Please, Marilyn. Let me close up and take you home. This is no place for—”

Marilyn jerked away from her touch. “The whole county knows you stole that damned election. But as long as Roger was alive, he was still a threat to you. More competent and more respected—the one the men looked to for leadership.”

Justine took a deep breath. “I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Savoy, and if it makes you feel any better, I’ve submitted to an interview with Larry Crane and told him he has the authority to pull me off this case if need be—”

“That’s supposed to make me feel better?” Marilyn demanded. “That you’ve assigned your handpicked lapdog to look into your wrongdoing? Someone who depends on your goodwill for employment?”

“I know this is hard,” Justine said, “but you need to try to hear this. I’ll be asking the state to look over everything we do here, to make sure there’s nothing we’ve missed. I’ve lost a husband, Marilyn, so I understand how hard—”

“Don’t you stand there telling me you understand this. Don’t you dare act like the two of us are part of the same club.”

Justine forced herself to continue. “And I want you to know that if you need anything, anything at all, I’m here for—”

“Get out. Just get out of my sight. Go away and rot in hell.”

Justine managed to slip her card to the older agent, nod to the other customers, and make it back out to her SUV. Once she was there, the shaking set in, along with the realization that Marilyn Savoy’s accusations would fall like flaming arrows, igniting everything they touched until the entire county blazed with indignation.

And eventually, the allegations would find their way to the Texas Rangers already investigating Justine. Frustrated by their inability to pin corruption charges on her, would they be happy to have an excuse to go after her for murder?

At the thought, Justine felt a tightening, as if some mysterious assailant had hidden a noose beneath her clothes, too. And she wondered, How much time did she have left to breathe free? How many hours remained before the Rangers spoke to witnesses about her relationship with Roger?

How long before they asked Ross Bollinger about the scene that took place at the hospital last night?

Though she had no idea, one thing was for damned sure: There was no longer any question of returning home to lie around the house and nurse her aching head. Not when she sensed time swiftly running out.

Chapter Twelve

Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage…

—William Shakespeare, Twelfth Night, Act I, Scene 5

As the afternoon wore on, the rain finally ended, and Trudy went home to her family. But Ross remained at his aunt Ava’s, half-afraid that if he left the house, Laney would return to pack her bags and slip away forever.

Though the two deputies had taken her cell phone with them, Ross had held on to a copy of the list he’d made of his cousin’s phone contacts during the night, and he passed the time by calling those he hadn’t yet tried. Again and again, he was frustrated to reach voice mailboxes or disconnected numbers, or to speak to an old friend who hadn’t heard from Laney in months.

Ross decided to try Justine, though his stomach tightened at the thought of facing her, considering what had happened since yesterday. But he refused to allow the awkwardness of the situation to defeat him.

Justine, as she often had, beat him to the punch. Hearing a vehicle pull up, he saw her emerging from her mud-splattered SUV. He was surprised to see her for once in her khaki uniform, right down to the badge and gun belt, as if she’d finally decided to try to be one of the men instead of dressing in dark suits in an attempt to command authority—and hide the feminine contours of her body. Which, as any straight male within a hundred-mile radius could have told her, had been a lost cause from the start.

He went to the front door and met her on the porch.

Not knowing what to say, he tried to tease her into smiling. “Nice outfit.”

Clearly upset, she looked up from beneath the brim of her hat. “Don’t you start with me.”

Ross cursed and pulled his Y chromosome out of his mouth. “I, uh, I was wondering when you’d drop by. Started to think you might not show up.”

Eyeing him warily, she said, “Got here as soon as I could.”

“Worried about what I might be telling people?”

She shook her head, her dark gaze immeasurably sad. “I have nothing to hide, Ross. What happened to Roger…don’t think for a second I’m not upset about it. He may have been a real pain in the ass, but he was one of my guys, one I had a responsibility to keep safe. Do you understand that?”

Ross stared at her, studying her features, gauging her voice, her words, every nuance of her body language. And he saw no indication, not the slightest hint, that she was lying. Still, he had to think of Laney. Had to be certain she wasn’t being used to blunt the force of Justine’s fall.

“I do,” he said. “And I want you to know I’d testify that he looked to me as if he wanted to shoot you last night. If it were self-defense, I’d understand that. I’d defend you…” But I’ll be damned if I’ll let you pin a man’s death on an innocent young woman.

Justine never took her eyes from his. “I didn’t kill him, Ross. I never even spoke with him after last night at the hospital. Besides, he’ll be an even bigger problem to me dead than alive.”

“So what was he doing at your house?”

She shook her head. “Could I come inside and discuss this? It’s been one hell of a long day.”

Nodding, he ushered her indoors and gestured toward his aunt’s fussy parlor sofa, where she removed her hat and held it, revealing austerely pinned-back hair.

“Can I get you anything?” he asked. “Something to drink, maybe? How ’bout coffee?”

He’d never known her to turn down a cup, even in the heat of summer. The thought brought with it an image: Justine naked, lying on a motel room bed as she sipped from a paper cup, her hair tumbled and her skin lightly sheened with sweat from their lovemaking.

A pang of loss caught him off guard, and he struggled to recall his priorities. As well as her agenda, whatever it might be. “I have a pot already made,” he added.

Justine looked startled by the offer, as though she’d given up expecting kindness. “That’d be great, Ross. Now that the front’s blown through, it’s getting chilly.”

He hesitated, wondering how she was feeling. Had she taken time to eat or rest? Was her head throbbing or swimming with exhaustion?

Did she miss him at all?

But instead of asking, he gestured toward his own half-full mug. “Still take it with just a little sugar?”

She nodded. “Thanks, Ross. I appreciate it.”

Ross went to get her a mug and returned to sit beside her.

Face dipping toward the steam, she drank, taking long swallows that made her throat work visibly. Watching her intently, Ross ached to touch the spot, to caress it with his fingertips, but he reminded himself he was after answers and not her.

Liar, his subconscious whispered. You still think you can make her want the same things you do. And you still think you can save her, the way you couldn’t Anne. To drown out the thought, he repeated, “What was Roger Savoy doing at your house?”

“He wasn’t inside my house, wasn’t anywhere I saw him,” she said. “But that’s still a damned good question. Especially since Noah freaked out when he saw him in the pasture—pulled away and ran back to the feed room, where he hid yesterday. And he kept saying the same thing he said then, too: ‘No touch,’ over and over.”

“You don’t think Roger was the one who—”

“I’m not sure what to think right now. Noah’s traumatized, for certain. He may have only been reacting to seeing a dead body, or maybe he caught sight of the…” Justine shook her head but didn’t finish the thought. “It’s hard to tell with him, and he was too upset to question.”

And not sufficiently verbal to explain himself, Ross knew. Though he sensed intelligence in the boy, Ross understood it was locked down deep inside him—as was the story of who had taken him yesterday.

“So whatever happened to Savoy, happened in your pasture?” Ross asked, changing the subject.

Her fingers wrapping around the mug for warmth, Justine took another sip of coffee. “Hard to say for sure, what with the rain and the EMTs and everybody stomping through the scene. He could’ve been shot there, or might’ve been dumped after someone hit him elsewhere.”

“Did you hear anything? Any gunfire?”

Shaking her head, Justine said, “I must’ve been asleep. I didn’t get to bed till three, and I was up again by seven thirty, on the phone with some of my guys at the office.”

“So if the time of death matches up, you’ll know it happened—”

“Not necessarily. Roger didn’t die straight off. He was still breathing when my dad got home from the hospital and found him. Damned vultures all around him, waiting, and I never even realized a human being was out there.” The pain in her eyes sliced Ross like a scalpel. “He could’ve lain out there for hours while I slept.”

“So your father wasn’t with you when all this happened?”

Justine set down her half-empty mug on a stack of his aunt’s magazines and crossed her arms over her stomach. Staring straight ahead, she answered in a flat voice, “No, Ross, he wasn’t. So I don’t have an alibi. If that’s what you’re getting at.”

His every misguided instinct screamed at him to reassure her, to pull her into his arms and swear he’d help her through this. Instead, he took a deep breath. “So when did you settle on my cousin as a suspect?”

Justine neither answered nor looked at him, so he hammered home a second question: “Was it before or after you figured out you might be in the crosshairs?”

“We found a couple of things on Roger.” Justine’s cold gaze fixed on his. “Things of interest in this case.”

“The cell phone, right? The one he supposedly used to call Laney? Paul Miller mentioned it,” Ross said. “What else?”

“I can’t really say any more about an ongoing murder investigation,” she said, her expression schooled to stillness. “Especially with one of your relations a person of interest in the case.”

“Bullshit,” he snapped. “You know better. I’ve already told you Laney wouldn’t—”

“Suffice it to say”—her professional blast shield was completely in place—“we’re going to be looking into every possible scenario.”

“Don’t do this to me, Justine. Don’t close me out like this.” Ross knew her response had been triggered by his own harshness, but he wouldn’t, couldn’t, take back the questions he’d asked. No matter how badly he wanted to go back to a time when the only thing that stood between them was the freshness of her grief. Or grief coupled with Justine’s desire to continue capitalizing on her status as the late sheriff’s widow.

Picking up her hat, she stood and thanked him for the coffee, then added, “Next time you hear from your cousin, I hope you’ll advise Miss Thibodeaux it’s in her best interest to contact us. The sooner, the better.”

Ross knew he had no right to touch Justine, but he couldn’t help himself. Laying one hand on her arm, he asked, “Just tell me, have you sent someone to Bone Lake? Have you checked the spot where Laney’s band members were found hanged?”

In his mind’s eye, his saw his cousin’s silhouette suspended, slowly spinning as it depended from a branch shrouded with moss. The vision was so horrendous, so real, that he involuntarily tightened his grip on Justine’s arm.

Her eyes softened. “Sorry. I should’ve mentioned that first. I sent two men to search the area this morning after you called. I’m glad to tell you they found nothing—no sign that anyone had been there lately. No sign of Laney or her car.”

Ross felt the sharp bite of relief, followed by soothing warmth as blood began to refill his veins and capillaries. He eased his hold on Justine but didn’t break the contact. Couldn’t.

“Are you all right?” She studied his face, concern melting the mask away.

“What if Laney’s dead somewhere? I’m always telling her she’s way too trusting. Naive enough that someone could’ve lured her. Maybe this person shot Savoy, then used his phone to call…She was the last one,” he said, thinking of her dead band members.

“Ross, don’t do this.” This time Justine touched him, her fingertips smooth and warm against the cool roughness of his cheek. “At this point, we don’t know if—”

Haunted by regret, he wouldn’t be distracted. “I was supposed to look out for her. Supposed to keep her safe.”

He saw Anne in his mind’s eye, watched her hurry from the restaurant where they’d met for lunch without a backward glance. Leaving angry, because he’d been unable to leave well enough alone.

“Listen to me,” Justine whispered. “I will find her for you.”

She sealed the promise with a featherlight kiss, a kiss that felt so right, so natural that it dispelled every reason he should be wary of her comfort and every emotion except stark relief. Relief that eased the aching emptiness he’d felt these past months, the growing sense that breaking off their relationship had been yet another mistake too big to undo.

Unwilling to let the moment slip away, Ross pulled Justine tight against him and claimed the whole of her mouth with a searing kiss, a kiss meant to remind her of better times, of times they hadn’t spent wounding each other with volleyed accusations.

Justine’s hat slid to the floor, and Ross felt her nails dig into his side and shoulder, heard a cry rise from her throat. A protest, he thought for one dizzying moment before it deepened into a murmur of unmistakable desire.

Ross unpinned her hair, his fingers thrusting through the coffee-colored waves that unwound around her shoulders, his mouth dropping to taste her neck, to pinch the tender flesh in his teeth. His free hand found the fullness of her breast and rubbed it, cupped it as she moaned, “Please…”

As he fumbled with the buttons of her shirt, she pushed at his wrist. “No, Ross. It’s not right. Roger’s dead, and Laney’s…” Her eyes were so dark, they made her look empty, hollowed out by regret. “And my life’s turning into one long, slow-motion train wreck. We can’t…”

He stared at her for a moment that stretched out, fragile as a filament of spun glass. “I need you,” he whispered. “Want you. Haven’t stopped wanting you for one damned minute.”

The space between them vanished, and their mouths moved together, kisses deepening as Ross’s hand returned to undo her buttons. To slip his hand inside her shirt, her bra, as she stood on tiptoe and rubbed her hip along the length of his erection.

And after that, there was no more argument, no pause to think of all the reasons this was a terrible idea, nothing but two pairs of hands desperately undoing the rest of the buttons, belts, and zippers that lay between them.

“Have to have you.” His own voice was a harsh whisper in her ear as he took her onto the sofa and helped her out of her sleeves. The metal of her badge clicked against the wooden floor as her shirt pooled beside the spot she’d laid her gun belt. “Need you right here, right now.”

She shrugged out of a pretty, lace-edged bra, her breathing hard and shallow as her fingers feathered along his shaft. “Hurry.”

Undressing quickly, Ross forgot about his surgery, the older, deeper scar Anne had left, and the recent worry about his cousin. Forgot all the reasons he’d found a relationship with Justine so untenable before. Instead he lost himself in the need to sample peaking nipples. The need to touch and taste and plunge into her damp heat.

For the moment, there was only Justine, her eyes sliding closed and her face growing younger by the second as she shed the lines of worry, along with the last of her clothes. Justine whispering, “Please hurry,” as she stroked him nearly to the breaking point.

“Down here,” he whispered, and pulled her onto the rug. He positioned himself above her, hearing her hiss of pleasure as he laved first one breast and then the other before kissing his way to the juncture of her hip and thigh. Once there, he lingered, tormenting her with long licks that had her moaning, her body writhing with need.

“Still want me to hurry?” he asked, deliberately allowing the heat of his breath to fall on her dampness.

She moaned and looked down at him. “Pretty sure I can still reach my gun, Ross.”

Laughing, he found her center, made her forget all else but warmth and friction and the sharp spiraling of need. Need that had her crying out wordlessly as her muscles pulsed beneath his tongue, around his fingers.

When she could speak again, she whispered, “Oh, Ross. I need…I still want. Have to have all of you.”

She laid him on his back and kissed him hard on the mouth as she positioned herself over him. She paused then, looking thoughtfully at his left chest before splaying her long fingers above the red line of the healing, three-inch scar where the pacemaker had been inserted. Right now, it was controlling a strong and heavy rhythm. Leaning forward, she laid more kisses almost reverently between the widespread fingers covering his heart.

Looking into his face with a tenderness he’d never seen in her, she asked, “Is this all right, Ross? Are you sure you’ll be okay if…?”

Smiling to reassure her, he guided her hand lower. “Does it seem to you like my circulatory system’s having any kind of problem? This will be all right, I promise.”

And it was much more than all right, first when she took him in her mouth and coaxed him into a rhythm that started out hypnotic and built slowly toward explosive; and next, when she moved up over him and sheathed him, riding them both to a shattering climax.

With it, every bit of tension spilled forth, and Ross hugged her to him, feeling the strength flowing through him at the sight of the woman breathing hard above him.

“Oh, Lord,” she said as she climbed off him and kissed his temple. “I’d forgotten how…how good, how perfect this could be.”

Her gaze caught and held his, pain and longing and what he would swear was bone-deep loneliness all shimmering beneath the surface of her expression.

“But the sex was always good, right?” she asked him. “It was the rest of me you couldn’t handle.”

Her pulse picked up speed as she watched the change come over him, watched desire shift into alarm. It’s for the best, she told herself. A necessary evil.

Leaning on his elbow, he frowned up at her as she rose. “Why do this, Justine? One moment we’re laughing, loving, and the next you—”

“I’m telling the truth, that’s all.”

“—you push me away like this,” he finished. “Why not give things a little breathing space? Give us a chance this time. Give me a chance to…”

She paused in the act of refastening her bra, remembering her own pain. “Maybe this time I don’t want to be the one blindsided.” And maybe I’ll find out your cousin’s dead—or neck-deep in these killings.

“I never meant to hurt you.” The regret in his expression was nearly her undoing. She knew regret too well.

“Who says I was hurt?” She prayed he wouldn’t see through her bravado, that he wouldn’t guess she was hurting herself worse now. “I just don’t like surprises.”

“Listen to me,” he said. “There’s something I have to tell you. When I ended things with you, I wanted a clean break, yes. But not from you. It was never from you, just the way we were then, sneaking to that sleazy interstate motel and…I wanted to start over, Justine. I wanted to ask you out on real dates, pick you up at the house, and take you out to a restaurant or maybe to a movie. I wanted to bring you flowers and introduce you to my family and hang out on days off with you and Noah—”

She blinked away hot moisture. “But you didn’t, Ross. You didn’t. You told me we were over and you never called again. And you made me feel like something…something dirty. Like I’d been some kind of damned whore leading you astray.”

He looked stunned, as if she’d slapped him. “No, that’s not what I meant. Never for a moment. I would have made you understand. If I hadn’t gotten sick.”

He hung his head. “At first, I thought it was just an upper respiratory infection, but then…Well, I’m sure you heard about what happened in the ER. I don’t mean it as an excuse but—”

“I’m sorry.” She tried not to picture him falling, collapsing almost as Lou had in the pasture. Tried not to imagine Ross hooked up to machines. “I didn’t mean to dredge that all up—and I certainly didn’t mean for things to come to this.”

“Was it really so bad?” He turned a sardonic smile her way.

She couldn’t resist smiling back. “Oh, yeah, you couldn’t tell from my reaction? But seriously, Ross, even if you had called me a few months ago, you and I are still the same people, with the same issues between us—even more now. I’m still not ready for anything more—look, it hasn’t even been a full year, since I lost my…”

My husband…my integrity. Lost my way—and then you. It was a lot of losses in a short time, enough to leave her reeling.

“What if I said I’ve changed my mind?” Rising to his feet, he pulled her against him, his breath warm against her neck as he spoke. “What if I said I could live with whatever you’re willing to give me?”

I’d say you deserve a hell of a lot better. But Justine couldn’t force the words free. Stepping away from him, she simply shook her head.

“What if I said you were worth it?” he asked.

I’m not. She buttoned her shirt and grabbed the gun belt. On her way to the door, she looked back over her shoulder at his honest, handsome face.

Mastering her emotions, she said, “I’m leaving. I’m going to find Roger’s killer, and I’m going to find Laney. Until we know for certain they aren’t the same person, I think we’d both be better off tabling this discussion. Or maybe permanently forgetting it would be best.”

She walked out of the house, throat aching. She half hoped he would call to her, or perhaps rush to catch up. But Ross Bollinger did neither, though she waited in her vehicle for some time before starting the engine and shifting into gear.

Chapter Thirteen

Popular novels and movies often depict frontier judicial hangings as rushed, haphazard, and bloodthirsty affairs. The majority, however, were carefully considered, with much study given to the most efficacious rope material, type and position of the knot, and the precise length of the drop. There is ample evidence the hangman took much pride in crafting a quick, “clean” kill, that is to say, one that offered no disturbing evidence of the condemned’s suffering. On the other hand, those hangings marred by prolonged death throes, alarming bodily reactions, or, most egregious of all, the executee’s decapitation were described in period newspapers as “disastrous” or “disgraceful,” with the hangman’s “sloppy efforts” blamed for the fainting of the more sensitive ladies in attendance.

—Professor Elizabeth Farnum, PhD from “A Natural History of Death in Texas,”

Water slanted toward Ross, shining silver nails of liquid heat. But not comfort, though he remained in the shower long past the few minutes it took to wash and shave. Past the time, in fact, when warmth gave way to first a tepid and then a frigid assault as the hot-water heater emptied.

Shivering, he stepped out, drying himself with a borrowed towel from his aunt’s linen closet and dressing in fresh jeans and a fatigue shirt he had brought from home.

But he didn’t feel a damned bit better, not with regret clinging to his skin like a stubborn film. Regret that the sex, as good as it was, hadn’t done a thing to erase Justine’s pain and distrust. And regret that making love had distracted both of them from what was most important—finding Laney as soon as possible, seeing that she was safe from both the threat of violence and the law.

Hurrying to make up for lost time, he decided to go through his cousin’s belongings before Justine showed up with a search warrant and hauled everything off. Once in Laney’s bedroom, he pushed past his reluctance to breach her privacy in earnest, rather than just skimming the surface as he and Trudy had last night.

From Laney’s drawers to her closet, purses, and backpack, Ross went through everything methodically. In a bottom desk drawer, he located a file stuffed with an array of e-mail printouts, letters, and notes—more than a few of them on cocktail napkins—that at first appeared to be from Laney’s fans. Flipping through them, Ross smiled at those that compared her voice to some famous singer, or told her they were rooting for her to really make it big. But some of the notes disturbed him, including several that expressed too graphic an interest in her body and one that sent chills exploding outward from his center. Written in red pen, in scratched-out block letters, it was at the bottom of the folder, inside a plain white business envelope.

WHY DO YOU LOOK AT ALL OF THEM AND NEVER ME, BITCH? ARE YOU LAUGHING AT ME UP THERE? LAUGHING AT ME WITH THEM, TELLING YOUR FUCKING FRIENDS HOW YOU WOULD NEVER HAVE ANYONE AS PITIFUL AS I AM?

Surely such a note would have upset Laney, so why hadn’t she mentioned it? Ross wondered. Why hadn’t she called the sheriff’s department to report it?

But then, it hadn’t been a threat, exactly, and it was possible Laney wouldn’t want to give her family any more ammunition to criticize her choice in careers. But Ross was damned well going to bring it to Justine’s attention as soon as he had finished his search.

Forcing himself to put aside the file, he dug deeper into the drawer, where he uncovered the answer to one mystery, in the form of a new cellular phone contract. Beneath it, he found an older contract and put together the pieces. The phone he’d found, it seemed, was an old one from her last plan, with a different cell phone carrier whose contract would expire in the next week.

Come to think of it, Trudy had mentioned Laney’s complaints about her phone service. She must have grown tired enough of frequent dropped calls and lost messages to switch a week or—he rechecked the new contract—three before her old plan ran out.

Which must mean that her new phone had a different number, which for some reason wasn’t written on the contract. If he could find that number somewhere, maybe he could reach her. Find her at some friend’s place and simply ask her to come home.

And everything could go back to the way it had been. Normal, with the exception of the three deaths gnawing like disease through the county’s well-being—and infecting every facet of his cousin’s life.

That’s one hell of an exception, Ross thought as he dug through random slips of paper in Laney’s top desk drawer, which she used to hold an array of junk.

He didn’t have to dig far before finding what looked like a pink sticky note with the slant of Laney’s neat script. New #, it read, before a string of digits.

Pulling out his own phone, Ross dialed. As the line began to ring, he whispered, “Pick up, Laney. Pick up.”

Just as he expected voice mail to kick in, someone answered. Sounding as if he’d just awakened, the man said, “Hey, Ross. How’s it going? Forgot I’d given you this number.”

“Kenneth?” Ross could barely get the name out, he was so astonished. Why would Dr. Kenneth Fleming answer his cousin’s cell phone? “Is this your phone?”

Kenneth’s bark of laughter sounded more like a seal’s than that of the baby-faced ER doc. “Course it’s mine. Forget who you were calling?”

There was a long pause as Ross struggled to collect himself.

“Are you still there?” Sounding fully awake and alert now, Kenneth’s voice grew serious. “Is something wrong, Ross? Do you need—”

“Not from you,” Ross snapped, irritated with his coworker’s concern. “I was trying to get hold of Laney. I thought this might be her new number. She had it written down here.”

This time Kenneth hesitated so long that Ross demanded, “Why’s she have your number, Kenneth? You don’t know my cousin, do you?”

“I’ve listened to her sing a few times,” Kenneth admitted. “Other than that, I wouldn’t say I really know her.”

But Ross heard evasiveness in his voice. The same hedging he had heard on more than one occasion at work. When narcotic painkillers turned up missing. When Ross told Kenneth that his wife had called, certain he was at work in those days before she’d left him,

“Don’t bullshit me, man,” Ross growled. “Is Laney there? Is she with you now?”

Though it nauseated him to think of his beautiful and talented young cousin involved with a fat-assed screwup twenty years her senior, Ross reminded himself of his own infatuation with a woman under investigation for corruption. But Kenneth Fleming was no Justine, who, for all her complications, was still a gorgeous, fascinating woman with a core of genuine decency…an enigma he could spend his life unraveling.

“Laney’s not here,” Kenneth said carefully. “I haven’t seen her today.”

“Did you see her last night, then? And I swear to you,” Ross added, “if you don’t want me showing up at your place and shaking the truth out of you, you’d better give it to me straight.”

“Listen,” Kenneth said. “Yeah, I asked her out a few times. We did have coffee last week, but—”

“Christ, Kenneth. It’s only been a month since her boyfriend was found dead.”

“I never thought I’d have a chance with her, you know, her looking like she does and me looking like…well, you know…”

Was it possible some women found Kenneth’s hangdog self-abasement charming? Or maybe pitiful enough to lull them into supposing he was a hapless victim of his own life?

“Just coffee?” Ross asked, still suspicious.

“Look,” Kenneth said, “I was lonely; she was lonely. I’ll admit, I didn’t ask her out for conversation.”

“She’s twenty-two, you asshole.”

“Thing is, it wasn’t about sex, either,” Kenneth assured him. “I, um, I hate admitting this, but it was more that I wanted the boost of being seen with someone young and gorgeous. Or maybe I wanted Connie to hear about it.”

Ross murmured an acknowledgment, understanding on some level that Kenneth still wanted his ex-wife back. But that didn’t mean he believed for a minute that Kenneth hadn’t been interested in sleeping with Laney.

“But Laney’s turned out to be a really good listener,” Kenneth continued, “and when she opens up about all her plans for the future…she reminds me of the way I felt ten years ago, back when I still had hope.”

Having been burned by the man’s lies in the past, Ross couldn’t care less about Kenneth’s hopes and dreams. “Do you have her new number?”

“She got a new phone?” Kenneth asked. “She looked at mine, and I told her about the great deal I got on it. She said she might look into it.”

After another few minutes of conversation, Ross realized that Kenneth either didn’t know or wasn’t sharing anything of value.

“If you hear from her, ask her to call me,” Ross said. “And then you call, too, and leave me her phone number. It’s really important that I reach her. Something happened with her mother on the cruise. They’re airlifting her to a hospital in Miami.”

“Do they know what it is?” Kenneth’s concern sounded genuine.

“No idea yet,” Ross told him, since the invention had only this moment sprung to mind. Laney was going to kill him when she found out he had used such a cruel lie to force her to make contact. But with her life, and possibly her freedom, challenged, he didn’t have much of a choice, did he?

Finding Laney, seeing her safe, was the only thing that mattered.

After one of her deputies spent nearly an hour confirming that the Elaine Thibodeaux to whom the phone had been registered was definitely their Laney Thibodeaux, Justine harassed the cellular communications company again about triangulating the location from the signal.

“Can’t give you coordinates I don’t have.” The technician sounded irritable, tired of explaining the obvious to those who weren’t fluent in geek-speak. “As I told your deputy earlier, it’s the same situation we have with the phone registered to Mr. Savoy—”

“Chief Deputy Savoy.” Justine might’ve fired Roger, but he’d held the title too long to deprive him of it now.

“Of course, sorry. We have no way to find either phone right now. They’re either shut off, nonfunctional, or in a dead zone.”

Justine hoped Laney Thibodeaux didn’t turn out to be in a dead zone, too.

“Listen, there are a few things we can try.” He went on to explain some technology she couldn’t follow.

“You have all my numbers. You get a bead on that phone by any method, I want you to call me personally. No one else.”

Instinct warned her not to allow her men to get out ahead of her on this investigation. Not with one of their own murdered and several of them already muttering about how they would damned well get some answers out of Laney Thibodeaux if they had ten minutes with her in an interview room.

Most of it was talk, she knew, the release valve for their grief and stress—the shock of finding Savoy shot dead with a noose draped around his neck. She’d given them the usual lecture about how even the whiff of professional misconduct could give a defense attorney ammunition to get a murderer off the hook, and how they needed to pull together instead of letting Roger’s death tear them apart.

She walked to the break room for a refill on her coffee, but stopped outside, her feet freezing at the slippery sounds of lowered voices from within.

“You figure Bitchford was thinking in terms of ‘pulling together this department’”—the phrase was spoken in a high-pitched parody of a female voice—“when she fired Roger’s ass?”

“Goddamned cunt.” The ugly words hit like a gut punch, the voice Paul Miller’s, she thought. “Might’ve been smart enough to try for a distraction with that noose, but she didn’t even have the sense to get the body off her property.”

Justine wanted to charge in and light into him, but she hesitated for a moment, hoping some cooler head would prevail. Instead, the first speaker continued. “Everybody in the department—hell, half the people in this county—knew there was bad blood between the two of them. You ask me, she’s the one we ought to be sweating in the interview room right now.”

“What about her kid?” a younger voice asked. Calvin Whittaker’s. “There’s no way she’d put a noose on his neck, too. I saw how upset she was. She’d never—”

“Trying to throw us off the trail,” Deputy Baker theorized, his deep voice unmistakable.

“But don’t you worry,” Paul said—she was certain of it this time. “Bitchford’s going to get hers. She was riding for a fall before, but this time, she’s not fucking getting off so easy.”

“Come on, guys,” Calvin Whittaker broke in again. “I know we’re all upset, but you’re crazy, talking about the sheriff that way. Besides, how’d you like to hear a bunch of guys trash-talking your wife or your mama using that kinda language?”

A volley of insults ensued, including various disparagements of Calvin’s manhood and the strong assertion that Justine probably wasn’t the type to “give it up” for some candy-ass suck-up, so why didn’t he just go back to his mama’s titty anyway? Furious that the older men would pounce on her defender, Justine was again tempted to blaze in demanding badges.

But sticking up for Calvin, she decided, would do him no favors at this juncture; nor would confrontation do a damned thing to change the way the remaining men of this department felt about her.

Results, her father had told her before she’d left Noah in his care. You need results fast right now. It’s the only chance you’ve got. If you would have worked double-time to solve the murder of any of your men, you’re gonna have to make it triple for the man who spoke against you. Only then will they start saying you’re fair about things anyway—and that might end up being the first step in building respect.

What if it isn’t? she had asked him.

Then you pick yourself up and try the next thing and the next thing. Never give ’em any inkling you might have it in you to give up.

Good advice, she thought, grateful her father had shared it even when she didn’t feel like listening. So instead of confronting the gossips, or even demanding they get back to their assigned tasks, Justine took a deep breath and turned back to her office, her mug still empty, to do a little computer research until she calmed down.

Using both a state database and a search engine to check news sources, she went on the hunt for recent hanging deaths in Texas and Louisiana, from suicide clusters to suspicious cases. She found some suicides, some accidents, with most of the dead male and far too young.

Her eyes widened as she read of a Jane Doe—an unidentified woman found hanging in a tree on the pale bluffs of a state park near Lake Whitney. Dead for days when her body was found in early August, the victim had never been identified, as far as Justine could learn.

She followed up with a phone call to the sheriff’s department in Hill County, where a deputy confirmed the account.

“Never did find out who she was,” he said, “and the body was in such rough shape, what with hanging out there in the heat like that, we weren’t even sure of the age or race or nothing. Hell, even the height was hard to figure, given the way she was all stretched out. And once one foot touched down, then the ants started marching in a little convoy and—”

“Thanks a lot.” Justine could’ve gone all day without getting those pictures stuck in her head. “You figure it for accident, suicide, or murder?”

“Suicide, most likely, but considering the decomp, it’s hard to say for sure.”

After telling him a little about her rash of lakeside hangings and giving him her contact information, Justine hung up and scratched a few more questions in her book. Lake Whitney, she’d learned when she checked, was almost three hours from Preston County, so she jotted down the questions: Poss. suspect traveling? Shortening time between deaths? Serial killer, or victim-specific?

With no answers on the horizon, she made another call.

The first was to her father’s fishing buddy, the toxicologist from the Dallas medical examiner’s office. But this time, rather than clamoring for information on her cases, as she had a tendency to do when under the gun, she concentrated on the many such calls she’d heard her dad and Lou make over the years. Calls where it was apparently deemed impolite to bring up one’s actual objective.

Telling herself, I can do this. I speak fluent Good Old Boy, she asked Dr. Wagner, or Mike, as he preferred to be called, how the fish had been biting lately.

“Haven’t had time to wet a lure in what seems like forever,” he said, “but I’d sure like to. I hear the fishing’s pretty good out your way.”

Rolling her eyes at the hint, she drew in a deep breath. “Then you’ll have to take some time off, Mike, come and visit while the old man’s around,” she said, struggling to master the Zen of I’ve-got-all-day-to-sit-around-making-offers-I’m-praying-you-won’t-take-me-up-on. “Bone Lake’s known for trophy bass, and I’m sure he’d love an excuse to rent a boat and try to find some.”

They chatted for another minute before finally, just as Justine was about to explode with impatience, Dr. Wagner said, “Well, I suppose we both need to get back to work, and anyway, I’ve found some interesting results you’re going to want to hear. About the samples from the Tyson and Willets cases we tested?”

“Great, that’s great.” Justine jotted notes as Wagner ticked off a number of substances found in each man’s system. In Tyson’s case, he named what Justine recognized as a blood-pressure medication, along with a moderate blood-alcohol reading. For Jake, he listed several drugs, all but one of which, the toxicologist responded to her question, might well have been prescribed for the treatment of ALS or depression.

Justine was disappointed. “That’s it?”

“I was saving the best for last. I did get some unusual results from both samples, which led me to do a…” Wagner described his procedures in excruciating detail while Justine impatiently tapped her pencil and wondered what it was with scientists that they had to wow a person with everything they’d ever learned instead of simply getting to the desired nugget of information.

“I found scopolamine in both men,” Wagner finally said. “We don’t see a lot of it. Not in this country, anyway. Usually it’s GHB or Rohypnol—roofies—or sometimes ketamine. I never even would’ve tested for it if your father hadn’t said you were wondering how someone could get grown men to go along with being hanged.”

Finally, something Justine understood. “You’re talking date-rape drugs? Something that could make these victims compliant?”

“Scopolamine has a lot of off-label uses. Rumor has it U.S. intelligence has tried it as a truth serum for interrogations; it’s been used to induce hallucinations by native shamans in South America—”

“Yeah, we get a lot of those around here,” Justine said wryly.

“And it’s very commonly used by Colombian criminals, who dump it into victims’ drinks or food to coerce them into emptying their bank accounts or engaging in sex acts, even giving up their own infants to traffickers without a fight. This is one scary drug—turns people into robots.”

Justine blew out a breath, imagining the horror of having free will stripped away. “Thank God we don’t see much of it here, then.”

“And in addition to suppressing a victim’s barriers to resistance,” Wagner continued, “scopolamine also prevents the formation of new memories, so victims can’t testify later against their abusers.”

“They don’t testify either,” Justine added grimly, “after they’ve set their own necks inside a waiting noose.”

Chapter Fourteen

Death is a debt we all must pay.

—Euripides

Justine could have sent a deputy, someone she trusted, like Larry Crane or Calvin. But as uncomfortable as seeing Ross again would be, he had called her personally to say he’d found something he would like to show her, something he didn’t want to talk about over the phone. From the tone of his voice, she had her doubts he would be comfortable showing anyone else.

But the closer she drew to the house, the more certain she became that he would have called his attorney friend, rather than her, had he found anything that might incriminate Laney. No, he had some other reason for asking Justine to come back.

Pulling the old Expedition to the curb in front of the house, she grabbed her notebooks but hesitated to get out, wondering if he might have used the situation with his missing cousin as an excuse to see her again.

Justine dismissed the notion. Ross was too honorable a man, and far too deeply committed to his family, to sink to doing such a thing. Besides, in his heart, he must by now feel relief that she had nipped their “backsliding” in the bud. Surely, several hours later, he would have seen the folly of becoming involved with her again.

And if Ross really had decided he was ready for a serious relationship, maybe even thinking of remarrying, Justine knew he wouldn’t have long to wait or far to look for a woman with far less baggage. She’d seen that truth in Debbie Brown’s pretty blue eyes, felt it in the way other women looked at him.

With that thought, a spasm of grief tightened her stomach, but she’d made her decision, and she would live with it.

By the time Ross met her at the door of his aunt’s home, Justine had arranged her features into what she prayed might be some semblance of professionalism. Even so, the look he gave her, of regret tempered with concern and longing, tested her resolve.

Checking herself, she said, “Dr. Bollinger,” inclining her head in lieu of a more personal greeting. Safer that way, she told herself.

“Sheriff Wofford,” he countered, the desire in his eyes now walled off. “Thanks for coming. There’s something in the bedroom I think you ought to see.”

Your etchings? Justine restrained herself from asking.

“I found a couple of things in Laney’s room,” he said, moving close enough for her to smell his clean scent, “one of which could be a threat.”

As he ushered her inside a sunny yellow bedroom, she automatically cataloged the contents, from a window hung with delicate white curtains, their scalloped edges embroidered with tiny blue flowers, to a twin bed, with its rumpled chenille spread. A closed white laptop computer sat atop a small desk painted white to match the dresser. Other than the guitar leaning in one corner and a clutter of band photos tacked to a bulletin board, the space was fairly neat, but not unnaturally so.

Justine flipped open the blue spiral and jotted a few observations with a needle-sharp pencil she’d pulled from the box in her truck. Because writing, even thinking, with a dull one in hand was all but impossible.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Ross said carefully. “What’s with the two notebooks?”

She smiled. “Just a little habit I picked up from my old man. The red’s my Book of Questions. Every time a question’s raised, I write it down on its own page. Then I can jot down ideas, possibilities as they occur.”

“And the blue one? Book of Answers?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I call it my Book of Known Facts. As for answers, I leave those for the jury to determine.”

Before Ross could comment, Justine’s phone rang.

“You need to get that?” Ross asked.

She glanced at the screen long enough to see that it was Erik Whatley from Southern Humane Detention calling. Though she supposed she ought to thank him for the flowers, it chapped her hide to think that he was banking on it, watching and waiting for his opening, regardless of the fact that she had murder, mayhem, and a missing woman to contend with. Not to mention Ross, whose unblinking regard made her feel as if she’d swallowed a fistful of live wasps.

“Nothing important,” Justine said, allowing the call to go to voice mail.

Ross pulled out the desk chair and indicated Justine should sit. Once she had, he pulled a phone number from the top drawer and told her about his conversation with his coworker Kenneth Fleming.

Justine knew the name immediately. Last spring, her department had investigated some missing narcotics at the hospital. But soon after the deputies had narrowed their focus onto Fleming, the hospital’s chief administrator had called to tell her they’d prefer to handle the problem in-house, using rehab and extensive supervision. Since the court would probably do no more to a first-time offender, Justine had been happy to divert her men to more pressing issues.

“So is this the doc with the…problem?” she asked, trying to gauge how much Ross knew. Though she suspected that there were few real secrets among the hospital staff.

“Drugs, yes,” Ross said. “He’s been out of rehab for a while, though. Attending counseling and passing the tests he’s been given. Seems better, too, but I have to tell you, Kenneth Fleming’s still not the sort of person I’d pick for my cousin. Even discounting the drugs, he’s got twenty years on her, at least.”

Justine flicked him a look and tried not to take the comment personally. Still, she couldn’t help thinking of all the grief she and Lou had gotten after they had married, all the snide remarks and coarse assumptions about his motives and hers.

To his credit, Ross flushed, saying, “Please don’t think I mean…We’re talking about Kenneth here, an unstable man who’s still grieving over a recent divorce. And Laney, who’s barely started with the grieving process.”

“I understand,” Justine said. Did she drop her guard when she was around him, or was there some other explanation for how he so often seemed to know what she was feeling? “I’ll question Fleming personally. Could be he’ll be more willing to talk to me than one of Laney’s family members.”

Especially after she gave the man her patented Atomic Death Stare.

“You’ll let me know what he says, won’t you?” Ross asked.

She shook her head. “Sorry, but it doesn’t work that way. Just the same as you can’t tell me about a patient’s medical condition.”

He gave a curt nod, not liking it but clearly comprehending.

“Was that it?” Justine asked, her gaze settling on the laptop.

Ross bent to open the desk’s bottom drawer, the muscled curve of his upper arm brushing past the inside of her knee, a simple, accidental touch that all but made her vibrate.

Justine flinched at the contact, at the heightened reaction of her own sensitized body. But fortunately, this time Ross didn’t seem to notice. Or at least, he locked down his response.

Pulling out a file, he spread it open on the desk before her. “All these are notes from admirers of Laney’s,” he explained. “Or I guess that’s what you’d call them. Most seem harmless but some get pretty personal, mentioning her body and how she looked in this outfit or that. But this one…” He pulled out a plain white envelope and gave it to her. “This really bothers me.”

Reading it, Justine felt the fine hairs behind her neck rise. The red-lettered note was written in the language of a stalker, and when she looked back at the other notes that had made Ross uncomfortable, she spotted similarities in the writer’s cross-strokes.

“See that?” she asked, pointing out the phrase LAUGHING AT ME WITH THEM, then peeling a cocktail napkin note that praised not perfect pitch but the FEARFUL SYMMETRY OF YOUR BREASTS. “Doesn’t that look similar to you? The print, I mean.”

“I didn’t notice it before, but yeah. And look, it’s tilted the wrong way, too,” he said.

“A back slant,” Justine said, recalling some testimony she’d once heard about it in a courtroom.

“Does that mean he’s left-handed?” Ross asked.

She shook her head. “Not necessarily.” And the wording of the notes didn’t guarantee the writer was male, either, though statistics favored it. “Experts would argue over what the left slant means. I’ll leave that part to them, but you can tell a few things from the text itself.”

“Like what?”

“Well, this person’s reasonably well educated. Words are all spelled correctly, and look here: he ended this line with ‘as pitiful as I am’ instead of ‘as pitiful as me,’ which is how most people around here probably would say it.”

Ross nodded, looking at her closely. “I can’t believe you caught that so fast. I never would have seen it.”

She shrugged. “It’s experience, that’s all,” she said. “You’re probably a lot better at picking up a bad appendix or collapsed lung.” And life…you’re definitely much better at not screwing yours up.

“This ‘fearful symmetry,’” he said, pointing to the commentary on his cousin’s breasts. “That’s from some poem, isn’t it? So the guy’s pretty literate as well.”

“See, you’re catching on already.” Never much for poetry, Justine couldn’t place the quote but made a note of it to look up.

But instinct told her this wasn’t about literature. “This has all the earmarks of erotomania.”

Rather than asking for an explanation of the psychological disorder, Ross nodded, looking grim. “Some nut job of a fan thinks Laney’s secretly in love with him.”

“A lot of celebrity stalkings—and more than you’d think aimed at ordinary people—start out this way. These things can escalate over time.”

“Enough so the obsessed person might try to eliminate anyone he sees as competition?” Ross asked.

“I’ll need to take this file,” Justine said without answering, wishing he hadn’t already handled its contents. “And I’ll want to fingerprint you so we can eliminate yours from whatever we find on these.”

She knew getting usable prints other than her own, Ross’s, and Laney’s was a long shot, and that matching them to a subject already in the system—most likely a prior stalker or a sex offender—would be even less likely. But Justine had no choice except to try, using every means at her disposal.

“Fine,” Ross told her. “I’ll cooperate. But do you think, based on your experience, that this bastard might have her?”

Seeing the horror in his gaze, she wanted to tell him Laney was just off with some friend. Or assure him that if the obsessed individual did have her, he would never hurt her. But Justine couldn’t lie to him that way.

“I don’t know where she is,” Justine answered. “But I promise you, Ross, I am going to find her.”

One way or another.

Guarded, always guarded. That was Justine’s expression, Ross thought. One could spend a lifetime looking for cracks in her dark-eyed composure, waiting for glimmers of the light inside to shine out.

It had become, for him, an addictive pastime. Unhealthy, he suspected, but one he couldn’t seem to give up.

What he glimpsed at the moment convinced him she was thinking there was a good chance Laney had been taken last night, abducted by the same sick stalker who might have killed three times already. And a better-than-even chance she’d already been murdered, maybe even while Ross had been seducing the one person who should have been coordinating a search.

“I know that look,” Justine said. “Don’t give up, Ross. And don’t waste time beating yourself up about it either.”

Turning away from her, he shuddered, his teeth gritted so tightly the muscles in his jaws ached. Though Justine was right that there was no point in it, he couldn’t stop thinking how Laney would still be safe if he hadn’t left her alone while he went to Noah.

“Is it possible,” Ross wondered aloud, “that this person, this potential stalker might have taken your son to lure me away from Laney?”

Justine’s gaze drifted. Her thinking look, Ross knew.

“How would the stalker know you might be called to leave the house? Who would ever guess that?” she asked. “Unless we’re talking about someone who knows all the players well. Including things that you and I have kept to ourselves.”

After thinking for a moment, she added, “Would Kenneth Fleming happen to know you’ve treated Noah in the ER on a few occasions?”

“Sure, it’s possible, but still, I don’t see why that would click with him. He has no idea you and I were ever”—Ross groped for a word—“together.”

An uncomfortable silence wedged itself between them as Ross reflected that they never really had been. Not in any way that mattered. And because he’d waited too long, he’d lost his chance with her.

Frowning, Justine added, “Laney could’ve mentioned to him that Gwen was working with my son.”

Ross shook his head. “I just can’t see it, even if Kenneth did know all this. The man’s an out-of-shape, middle-aged crybaby. It’s hard to imagine a guy like that even knowing how to tie a noose, much less having the guts to use one to hang three men. Besides, if Kenneth couldn’t cover his tracks to rip off drugs from the hospital, do you really think he could have pulled off something like this?”

“I’ll talk to him, lean on him hard to get some answers. But I’ve met Dr. Fleming, and on the surface, I agree. I never got that kind of vibe from the man.”

Ross swore, wondering if not Kenneth, then who? Who the hell else might have Laney?

When Justine’s hand settled on Ross’s upper arm, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to lean toward her—for them to gravitate toward each other to seek comfort. Except this time neither made the first move, and the possibility slipped past them like dried leaves caught on a current.

Looking uncomfortable, she dropped her hand. “I’d better take this file and get back to the office.”

Before he could reply, her phone rang again.

“Sorry, need to take this,” she said after looking at the caller ID.

He left her in the room alone, but she caught up with him in the kitchen only minutes later, determination written in her expression, new purpose in her brisk strides.

“Guy from the cell carrier called me with GPS coordinates,” she told him, “on your cousin’s phone. They tried some power-boosting strategy—I don’t really understand it—and came up with a weak signal.”

“Where?”

A troubled look flashed across Justine’s features. “It’s not an exact address, just an area, and remember, this is only where her phone is. That doesn’t mean she’s there now.”

A flash of intuition revved up Ross’s heartbeat. Recovering, he said, “It’s where they were found, right? Where the rest of Hangman’s Bayou—”

When she nodded, he added, “But I thought you had the area searched.”

“Listen, I have to call this in and get some backup. Right now, while it’s still there.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” She made her way toward the front door. “But I promise you, I’ll call as soon as—”

“If you tell me no, I’ll only follow you in my car. I’m an emergency physician, Justine.”

“You’re a family member first,” she said. “And if Laney needs help, I’ll be sure to call an ambu—”

“I’m coming.” He lowered his voice, making it clear he was telling and not asking.

After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded. “But understand this, Ross. If I give an order, you’re to follow it. No argument, no questions. Your cousin’s safety’s absolutely top priority, but if there’s any kind of crime scene, preserving evidence has to run a close second. You fail to follow orders, I’ll have you in cuffs so fast, you won’t know what hit you.”

“You don’t need to threaten me,” he said, pissed off by her tone. Even if it called to mind his own blunt delivery when he’d warned her against leaving the hospital after her concussion. Maybe that was part of their trouble: that at least when it came to work, both of them were oriented toward results first and feelings second.

She didn’t answer but headed toward the Expedition. Ross locked up and hurried after her.

“Wait a minute,” he called. “Let me grab my medical bag from my trunk.”

She had the SUV running and was on her phone when Ross returned from the driveway and climbed in beside her, both his kit and an old blanket from his car in hand. With the temperature dropping and everything still damp from the earlier rain, he wanted to be prepared for anything.

“Yeah, well, meet us over there as soon as you’re finished,” Justine was saying. “Bring Calvin with you. And whatever you do, Larry, don’t mention this to any of the other guys.”

Still on the line, she drove, bumping over the curb to splash down into a puddle.

“Who came looking for me?” she asked. “Was it about the budget, because I haven’t had time to breathe, much less—What? You’re kidding. That’s just great, and no, he hasn’t called me. Probably hoping to blindside me. Thanks, Larry. Thanks a bunch for the heads-up.”

Ending the call, Justine sighed and shook her head. She looked pale, Ross decided, overwhelmed by the events of these past few days but still grimly determined.

“What is it?” he asked as they wound through a residential neighborhood. “Who are you avoiding?”

She darted a forlorn look his way. “Damned DA, Herb Stockton, wants to interview me. I expected the Rangers to show up asking questions, not that twerp.”

“You’d prefer the Texas Rangers?” Ross asked, knowing their impressive reputation as investigators of all sorts of crimes, particularly those involving corrupt elected officials.

“Definitely,” Justine said. “Rangers don’t come into town with an agenda, and they’re likely to keep digging until they figure out who really killed Roger and the others. And that’s all I want. The truth, without a bunch of county politics.”

The fierceness of her eyes and voice dared him to defy her. Instead, he nodded, saying, “I believe you.”

As Justine turned onto the tree-lined state highway that would lead them toward Bone Lake, she flashed a smile his way. “Then that makes one person in this county. Of course, I had to sleep with you.”

Ross grinned. “It’d take too long to sleep your way through the whole phone book. Ever think of doing just the DA as a shortcut?”

Justine gave a theatrical shudder. “Not in my worst nightmares. And the next time you make that kind of suggestion, you might want to remember that I’m armed…and in a very bad mood.”

Despite the way his fear for Laney was clawing at his insides, Ross laughed, remembering how much he’d always liked Justine’s black humor. Better irreverence than hysteria, which would rob both of them of the capacity to function.

But the conversation soon turned serious again.

“Do you think there’s any possibility,” Justine asked, her voice gentling, “that Laney might’ve driven on her own out here where her friends died? Either to memorialize them somehow or possibly to…”

Ross shook his head. “She would never kill herself, if that’s what you mean. Just yesterday she swore it to me. Said she’d never do something like that to the family, and she wanted me to know it, in case anything happened…Damn it, Justine. I should’ve reported that she was gone right away, as soon as I found out she wasn’t in the house when Trudy got there.”

“But you had good reason to believe she might have left on her own,” Justine reminded him. “Considering her feelings toward her sister, we still have to look at it as a possibility. ”

“What if Savoy called her to meet him for some reason and she interrupted his shooting?” Ross asked.

“We’ll ask her about it when we find her.”

Ross appreciated Justine’s optimism, even though he suspected it might be feigned for his benefit. He tried to send his mind down the same path, visualizing himself running up to Laney, who was veiled in black and laying a wreath beneath the boughs where her lover and her friends had died. He imagined himself embracing her, then giving her hell for shaving ten years off his life with worry.

When Justine’s phone rang, he jumped, nerve endings primed for bad news.

She glanced down at the caller ID and said, “My home number,” before answering. “Hey, Dad. I don’t think I’m going to make it home for dinner.”

Only then did Ross realize that the afternoon was fading, the colors of trees leaching out and a few small deer grazing in the deepening shadows. Checking his watch—the Expedition’s clock was broken—he saw it was already about twenty minutes after six. They were still a couple of miles away. What if their hopes of finding Laney disappeared into the darkness?

“You found what?” Justine was asking her father. “Sorry, but you’re breaking up. Can you repeat that? Slowly, please.”

She pulled to the shoulder, her body tensing visibly. “You found what? How could we have missed it last night? Is Noah—Are you keeping a close eye on him? Is he all right?

“Yes, Dad,” she went on after a moment. “I do realize you were in law enforcement when I was still in diapers. God knows, you’ve reminded me enough. And I know you’re careful with Noah. I’m just upset, that’s all, and I can’t get back there right now, so I’ll need you to bag the note and…”

She closed her eyes and massaged her forehead. “And by the way, if Herb Stockton happens to stop by or call, you have no idea when I’ll be back. No idea where I am now, either.”

Ross cleared his throat, and when she glanced his way, he gestured first toward his watch and then to the sun’s rim as it tucked itself behind the tree line. Nodding in response, Justine resumed driving and finished her call.

To Ross, she said, “Sorry about that. I had to—”

“Noah’s all right?”

“He is, and I know my dad’ll watch him like a hawk. Especially since…Dad took out Noah’s clothes to wash them. The ones he was wearing yesterday to school, and after.” She pursed her lips, and Ross saw her eyes welling.

“What is it?” he asked.

Shaking her head, she answered, “How could I have missed it last night? There was a strip of paper, a note curled in his jeans pocket.”

Rather than press for details, he waited while she struggled for composure.

Her lips trembled as she spoke. “It said, ‘Liar. Bitch. Step aside or pay hard.’ And I’ve seen something similar before, a milder version left for me at work, beneath a wiper blade on my truck. It seemed harmless at the time, so I didn’t think too much about it. But now…now I realize someone was serious. And when I didn’t get the message, the bastard went for my kid.”

“It all has to be tied together, the hangings and the nooses.”

Nodding, she said, “That’s what we’ve been thinking. Right now, though, all we can do is keep yanking at loose threads until something unravels—and make sure Noah’s never left alone till this is over.”

She made a right turn, taking them down the unpaved road that skirted a long inlet of Bone Lake. The Expedition wallowed through rainwater-filled ruts, the sprung suspension punishing them with each jolt.

Checking the mileage reading on her odometer, she added, “Keep your eyes open, Ross. The cell phone location could be anywhere along here.”

He craned his neck and squinted through the filmy window, then lowered it in an attempt to better peer into the shadowed realm of oak and cypress. “Where, exactly?” he asked impatiently.

The air rushing in was chilly, but Justine, too, put down her window. She smelled earthy dampness, vegetable decay, and, in the background, the lake itself, a great, invisible expanse beginning not fifty yards off to their right.

“I told you, Ross,” she said, “the location I have isn’t exact. At best, we could narrow it down to about a hundred meters. But this isn’t an ‘at-best’ situation.”

“Her car should be here somewhere,” he said. “We ought to see it parked out on the road, right?”

Justine peered out straight ahead of them, but there was no car. As there had been no car for Jake Willets or Caleb LeJeune, though Hart Tyson’s truck had been found.

“It’s possible the phone was dumped here,” she said.

“Or that Laney was,” Ross added. “Where exactly were the bodies found? This light won’t last, so let’s start there.”

Since she’d been thinking along the same lines, Justine parked the SUV and grabbed her jacket from the backseat, along with a couple of flashlights.

“You should’ve brought something to keep warm,” she said as she handed him one of the lights. Her breath sent up a smoky plume between them.

Head shaking, Ross rolled down his sleeves and tossed the folded blanket over one broad shoulder. “I’ll be fine.”

Justine wondered about the strain she saw in his face, the stress and lack of sleep that had pushed hard on a man so soon back from death’s door. Not that it had slowed him earlier, when the two of them had made love, but all this worry couldn’t be good for him. And what would she do if something happened to him, out here all on their own?

“It’s pretty wet, and the temp’s still dropping,” she said. “Maybe you should wait in the truck.”

Ross merely looked at her. “Which way?”

“Don’t come crying to me when you’re all wet and shivering,” she said as she led him off the roadside, where the land sloped gently downward. Sure enough, her department uniform khakis wicked up water from the tall weeds, and her shoes grew heavy as mud squeezed from under the soles, up the sides.

“Laney,” Ross called, his voice echoing beneath thick boughs strung with Spanish moss.

The only reply was the flap of wings as a blue heron took to the air. As they proceeded lakeward, brushy limbs snapped as several small deer leaped away into the shadowed gloom.

Justine tried Laney’s cell phone number, then shook her head. “Call’s not going through. Try yours, will you?”

Ross had no better luck with his phone, so he again shouted his cousin’s name. No human voice responded.

After stumbling in a shallow depression, Justine switched on her flashlight. Soon she spotted two pairs of footprints stretching ahead of theirs, tracks that looked fairly fresh, but partially blurred by the rain.

When Ross stared down, she said, “Don’t read too much into these. They could be from my guys, when I sent them to check the area. But let’s try not to step in them, just in case they end up—”

“What’s that?” Ross asked, pointing out a sodden wad of color.

Justine squatted to investigate, pulling a pen out of her pocket—her pencils didn’t travel as well—and using it to hook the mass and stretch it until she recognized it as muddy, rust-hued fabric.

“Sweatshirt,” she said, then glanced up at Ross. “You recognize it?”

Bending his knees to squat beside her, he pointed out the edge of a white letter on what would be the hooded sweatshirt’s chest.

She poked at it a little more and realized she’d been wrong about the color. It wasn’t rusty, but a shade of orange. Burnt orange, in particular, which made sense, since the letters spelled out Texas Longhorns. As in the University of Texas, with its popular team franchise.

“UT,” Ross said, seeing it an instant later.

“Not Laney’s?” she asked, though it was miles too large for the tiny singer.

Ross shook his head. “Not that I’ve ever seen her wear.”

“Know anybody else who has one?”

“UT’s pretty popular these days,” Ross said, “and it’s football season in Texas, so…”

His forehead creased and his gray eyes blinked abruptly.

“What is it?” Justine asked. “Are you thinking of someone? Because I’d like to know who’s been out here since Caleb LeJeune was found Monday. I’m sure this wasn’t here then.”

Ross shook his head and brushed his dark blond hair from his eyes. “This is probably nothing,” he said, “but I remember Laney saying something about how Jake was crazy over UT. I think he attended a semester or so and loved living in Austin. ”

Could Laney have been wearing her dead boyfriend’s sweatshirt? Justine pursed her lips, remembering nights in those first, awful months last winter when she’d wrapped herself in Lou’s old jacket just so she could catch his scent. When she’d worn it out to check the animals, Lou’s dogs had gone crazy, muddying it with paw prints as they’d jumped all over her and barked, tails wagging.

She’d had no choice except to wash the jacket after that, which had made her shout like a lunatic at poor Clyde and Oscar. Not long afterward, she’d let the dogs go to their new home—not because she held a grudge, but because they deserved better than a crazy woman for an owner.

“But a lot of guys have sweatshirts like this,” Ross said. “It doesn’t necessarily mean my cousin—”

A flat, oblong shape plunked free from the sweatshirt’s pocket, and Justine pulled out a handkerchief to pick it up.

“Here’s our cell phone,” she said softly as she flipped it open. It flickered once before the screen darkened, going dead as every man who’d ever been a part of Hangman’s Bayou.

Dead as Justine feared Laney Thibodeaux was, too.

Or at least, that was what Justine thought until she heard the first notes, not of evening birdsong but of a woman’s voice that hung like a mist among the shadows, a voice that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once.

Chapter Fifteen

There is no man so good that if he placed all his actions and thoughts under the scrutiny of the laws, he would not deserve hanging ten times in his life.

—Michel de Montaigne

Held close to earth by the boughs above, the echo reverberated from damp tree trunks. In such surroundings, it was all too possible to believe they’d heard a dead woman singing.

“Laney,” Ross called, whipping around in an attempt to figure out where the voice was coming from. For he knew his cousin’s voice when he heard it, no matter how strained or muffled. “Where are you, Laney? It’s Ross. I’m here to take you home.”

“Listen,” Justine whispered, her left hand on her flashlight and her right clutching her drawn weapon. She looked coiled, prepared to spring into motion in an instant. “Just be still and listen.”

A fragile set of notes drifted their way. Not singing, he realized. Laughter. Laughter that raced up the scale before disintegrating into an animal-like keening that made Ross’s stomach clench.

Was Laney hurt, hysterical? It was impossible to know.

“That way,” Ross said, turning toward his left. “It’s coming from over…”

His voice trailed off as he looked behind them. “Or is she back there?”

Justine fixed him with a stern look. “Stay here. Do not move an inch unless I call you.”

He didn’t get his mouth open to argue before she added, “Not a word, Ross. We don’t know who’s with her. Or what this person might do if he sees us.”

Pressing his lips together in a grimace, he nodded. But knowing she was right didn’t do a thing to dampen his desire to take the lead on this, to be the one to save his cousin and protect Justine from harm.

Anne’s memory drifted toward him like a specter. Anne, who had left their lunch date early—and angry, thanks to their argument—to meet and interview the victim of a sexual assault. Who hadn’t made it halfway to the scene when an unrelated police chase sent a fifteen-year-old car thief in a Hummer bursting through a red light and into the passenger side of her car.

If Ross had only been there, he might have stopped the bleeding in time. Or if he’d only kept her with him in the restaurant a minute, even seconds, longer…

But Justine was gone already, hurrying, her head lowered, into the undergrowth. Almost immediately, she disappeared completely, moving with an athletic grace that somehow looked out of place amid all the mud and tree limbs.

Followed by laughter, another slurred scrap of song floated in his direction: a tattered vestige of Laney’s singing voice. Skin prickling with cold, Ross realized he was hearing the sounds of intoxication. Had she come out here alone to drink away the memories of her lost band or escape from them with drugs?

A flare of anger cut through his chill. Though he suspected he’d be more forgiving of a grieving stranger who’d resorted to chemical relief, he was furious to think Laney would shun her family, all the people in her life who would be glad to listen, to come out here and risk her life in these conditions. Damned thoughtless of his cousin to turn her back on him and Trudy, to indulge in self-destruction without a thought to how badly she might frighten or hurt others.

But even as he thought how much he’d like to throttle her, Ross knew, at least in part, that he was reacting out of fear. How long had she been out here, under the influence and possibly soaked, her body heat trickling away like the rain draining into Bone Lake? It took all of his self-control to stay still and quiet instead of running to where he could wrap her in the blanket and rush her to Justine’s truck.

Laney’s voice faded like the waning day, the echo dying last. In its wake, the silence expanded, an ominous weight that tempted Ross to shout her name again.

But before he could break his promise, a sharp crack filled the air. A sound that could only be a single gunshot.

Not three feet to Justine’s right, a trunk splintered, a bullet zinging off it in a noisy ricochet. But as she darted behind the thick base of a bald cypress, all her attention was fixed on a spot at her two o’clock, the place where she had glimpsed a muzzle flash and heard a branch snap.

She couldn’t see the gunman, for the woods were dense, and dusk had thickened in this shaded patch of bottomland. But Laney’s singing—or at least, Justine thought it was Laney—hadn’t come from that direction, so unless Laney had moved almost as swiftly as the bullet, she couldn’t have been the one who’d fired.

Breathing hard, Justine switched off her flashlight. Her mind whipped through the risks, from losing her chance to catch the shooter, to getting her head blown off by failing to withdraw. Both training and good sense prompted her to wait for the backup she’d called earlier.

But it was the thought of two civilians so close by that kept Justine from blindly returning fire. And the thought of the personal attacks against her that prevented her from calling out and identifying herself as a law officer.

Still, she couldn’t let this go, not while the chance remained of capturing or killing what might well prove to be their hangman. Plus, she was personally pissed off now, realizing how close she had come to getting head-shot. She zigzagged forward, darting from tree trunk to tree trunk at a diagonal to the shooter’s last known position.

When she paused, she heard something crashing through the heavy brush. The receding steps assured her she had him on the run, at least, so she cast aside caution and ran after him in earnest, hoping to catch up—or at least catch sight of the shooter for a visual ID.

Pumped with adrenaline, she barreled through a thorny patch and sprang over a log, not worrying about her own noise, since the runner was making so much of his own. The blood rush of the pursuit took over, inuring her to the throb of her still-healing head and the stitch developing in her side.

He was heading down a slope toward the water, she thought. Downhill, where she could trap him—unless he wanted to brave the lake and the resident alligator population.

But it was altogether possible he had a waiting boat, she thought, picking up speed as the grade grew steeper. Picking up so much speed that when one foot snagged on a tree root, she pitched forward and went down hard—

Only to have something—someone—land heavily atop her back and send both her flashlight and her firearm spinning from her grasp.

Chapter Sixteen

A man who won’t die for something is not fit to live.

—Martin Luther King Jr.

It was Justine’s cry of alarm that got Ross moving, had him parting the veil of Spanish moss to follow the path she had taken. Even if he could have gotten his phone to work in this dead spot, Ross couldn’t wait helplessly while God alone knew what was happening to her and Laney.

Keeping his flashlight off but in hand, he tried to estimate the direction of the shot, tried to differentiate it from the echo that had followed.

He hadn’t gone far when he heard soft whimpering to his right. Turning, he saw a silhouetted form stagger through the underbrush, a form so small it looked childlike.

“Laney?” he called softly. “Laney, is that you?”

He reached her within seconds, recognizing the long tangle of her wet hair and the waxy-pale features in spite of the weak light. “Oh, Laney,” he said, and hugged her to him, feeling in an instant the cadaverous chill of her flesh and the shuddering that racked her body.

He’d been right to think of hypothermia, he realized. She was so cold, it could already be too late unless he got her inside and to a hospital quickly.

Pulling the blanket off his shoulder, he bundled it around her tightly before wrapping her in his arms. “Have you taken something? What’s happened to you, Laney?”

She didn’t answer, only hummed tunelessly as she slumped against him. Even as he worried about his cousin, Ross was straining to hear Justine.

What he heard instead, from the direction of the water, was the rough rumble of a boat motor receding. Was it whomever Justine had shot at? Or had she been fired on instead? Had the single cry he’d heard been a cry of pain as she lay dying?

The boat motor faded, leaving him with yet another fear: What if this maniac was taking Justine with him? Taking her to hang her, as he’d hanged every other person standing between him and whatever sick plans he’d had for Laney?

“I’ll be right back,” he told his cousin as he lowered her to the ground with the blanket wrapped around her.

“Don’t—don’t leave,” she stammered, her voice barely audible.

Ross hesitated, torn between the need to help the woman he was fairly certain he could save and the marrow-freezing image of Justine, shot or strung up like the others. He could end up hurt or killed, too. And there was no way Laney was strong enough to get out on her own for help. And Laney’s your responsibility. Laney, not Justine.

But it was Justine Ross went running after. Justine, out of the foolhardy resolve that he would somehow save them both.

She should have listened to her brother. Listened when he’d shouted that she couldn’t make it back inside to save their old dog, Jelly, a fat black spaniel mix who could barely walk on his good days.

Instead, Justine darted away from him and ran upstairs—or tried to. But something happened as she reached the first steps, some part of the ceiling caved in. Something heavy and unyielding struck her on the back and pinned her at the bottom of the staircase.

Funny how she couldn’t smell the smoke now. How she couldn’t feel its thick heat roiling in her lungs. She saw it, though, the dark cloud that obscured her vision, and she screamed again, screamed at her brother to stay outside, to stay away from her.

Because she knew now what she hadn’t at the time. Knew she would survive somehow, crawling from the house after he dug her out from under the debris. Escaping after a blazing beam, collapsing from the burned-through second story, had struck Eddie, killing him as he had tried to follow. Killing him because he’d pushed her on ahead. Because she’d loved that sick old dog too much to heed her brother’s warning.

But the weight was gone from her back. The weight was gone, the smoke had vanished, and Justine dragged in breath after panicked breath while something in the woods rushed toward her.

Reality sucked her back into its vortex, pulling her through the decades—past her father’s accusations and her mother’s vain attempts, before her own death, to heal the rift between them. Catching up to Justine in time for her to make a wild grope for her gun, her heart throbbing as she sought to shoot before the killer reached her.

Except she couldn’t find the gun, and a familiar voice called, “Justine.”

“Ross?” she cried, and tried to push herself up out of the muddy pile of leaves where she had landed. Everything ached, from back to ribs to head and ankle, but her vision was clearing enough to make out his big form squatting down beside her.

“How bad is it?” he asked, running his hands over her so quickly she couldn’t protest. “How badly are you injured?”

She paused and tried to focus, decided that no pain stood out above the others. With a shake of her head—which started the world rocking—she said, “Someone jumped me from behind. I think he must’ve stunned me for a minute or I blacked out or…something.”

“You’re still recovering from a concussion—a fall might’ve been enough to do it.”

“Damn it—I think he might’ve gotten my gun, too. Do you see it?”

Ross flipped on his flashlight, but rather than searching the ground, he used it to look her over. “No blood, thank God. I heard the shot. And then you cried out. I thought—”

“One of them fired at me,” she said. “Came close but didn’t hit me.”

“You mean there was more than one?” he asked, as he shone the light on the ground around her. Though the gun was nowhere in sight, a glint sparked off the metal barrel of Justine’s flashlight.

Justine grabbed it. “Definitely more than one,” she said. “And the second managed to surprise me. Do you know where they went?”

“Gone, I think. I heard a boat leave. But we can’t sit here talking. We have to get back to Laney. I found her, but we have to get her warmed up or we’ll lose her—she’s seriously hypothermic and maybe drugged or drunk.” Ross held out a hand to her. “Do you think you can stand?”

Still feeling unsteady, Justine let him help her to her feet. As they staggered uphill, he kept his arm around her, and she didn’t feel inclined to argue with the consoling sense of safety his touch offered. Nor did she feel up to chewing him out for ignoring her order to stay put.

Slipping her hand inside her pocket for her cell phone, she said, “I need to check on my backup. And get an ambulance out here for Laney.”

“My phone wouldn’t get a signal,” Ross said. “And anyway, we can move her to the truck and get you both help a lot faster. Let me drive and—”

“I don’t need help,” Justine insisted. For one thing, every step was clearing her head. For another, she’d been blindsided and overpowered twice now in the space of three days. It didn’t speak well of her competence, especially considering that she’d lost her gun. Maybe her father had been right from the beginning: Maybe she belonged indoors, working regular hours cataloging evidence rather than trying to lead men and capture criminals.

But no sooner had the thought occurred than she crushed out her own self-pity, gritted her teeth, and stepped out of Ross’s embrace. “Thanks for coming for me, but I’ve got it from here,” she said, hearing the streak of stubborn independence in her own voice.

Hearing it and liking it just fine.

Or at least, she did until Ross stopped in front of her so abruptly, she walked into his back.

Shining the light into an indentation in the leaves, he picked up the blanket. “This is where I left her. Where is she? Where would she go—especially without this? Laney!”

Justine’s light found a trembling bush and a spot where Spanish moss appeared to have been torn down from an overhanging tree limb. “This way,” she said, and took off, her desire to find Laney overriding both headache and caution.

She hadn’t far to look, thank God. “Here,” she said, seeing that Laney had wandered only about a dozen yards into the brush before she’d collapsed, legs curled tight beneath her, near the base of a huge live oak.

Only a step or two behind, Ross knelt beside her. “Laney, can you look at me?”

When there was no movement from the still form, Justine’s breath froze in her lungs. But Ross did something—Justine could have sworn she saw him pinch his cousin’s earlobes—that made Laney gasp and weakly fight to pull away.

“Let’s get her to the truck and crank the heat up.” He wrapped her in the blanket and gathered her in his arms.

Ross hurried back toward the road, his long strides so quick that Justine had to run to keep pace. “Wait, Ross. Let me help you carry her,” she called, thinking of the surgical scar on his chest.

But Ross didn’t slow at all, reaching her vehicle in minutes. Once they had Laney on the bench seat between them, Justine fired up the engine and cranked the heat on high. Panting from her own exertion, she said, “I’m fine to drive. You work on Laney.”

He glanced up at her. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Definitely,” she swore, still aching but grateful for the height and strength she’d cursed all through school.

“The toxicologist told me earlier that Tyson and Willets both tested positive for scopolamine,” she told Ross. “I think it’s a fair bet that Laney’s been drugged, too.”

“Thanks, Justine,” Ross said as he grabbed his medical kit from the backseat. “Thanks for everything.”

As she sped toward the county hospital, Justine wondered if Ross would still be thanking her if his cousin failed to make it. Or if he’d forever regret leaving her to rescue a woman who ought to have been capable of caring for herself.

Chapter Seventeen

Wild, dark times are rumbling toward us, and the prophet who wishes to write a new apocalypse will have to invent entirely new beasts, and beasts so terrible that the ancient animal symbols of St. John will seem like cooing doves and cupids in comparison.

—Heinrich Heine, “Lutetia,” or “Paris,” from The Augsberg Gazette

Thursday, October 22

By ones and twos or in small clusters, Justine watched Laney’s family members fill the emergency department’s waiting room, though it was already past midnight. Laney’s sisters came first, one plump and already dowdy in her early thirties, the other a tearful, petite woman with long brown hair. Two of Ross’s sisters showed, too, Gwen and a second tall blonde Justine had never met. Others poured in with them, a spouse here, a child there, though the kids were bundled up and sleeping, as heedless of their surroundings as exhausted puppies.

Except for a brief greeting, when she sketched out the few real facts she could share, Justine kept her distance as they waited, some talking quietly, others praying, and still others staring vacantly at a muted TV tuned to CNN. After finding a comfortable chair in a quiet alcove, she settled in to work her phone—and completely lay waste to her depleted overtime budget by keeping her most senior investigators on the clock. But Justine didn’t give a damn about that, not with a killer on the loose right here, in her county. A murderer who apparently had no qualms about attacking law enforcement officers, who had likely killed one of her own.

Distracted by movement, Justine looked up as a new arrival joined the Bollinger-Thibodeaux clan in the main waiting room. To her utter astonishment, it was the impeccably suited Erik Whatley, who walked straight to Gwen and kissed her on the cheek.

The same Erik Whatley who’d been filling up Justine’s voice mailbox with requests for a short meeting all day. That must be how he got my cellphone number, Justine realized, since prior to today, he’d only hounded her at work.

Had Whatley, who was based in Atlanta, simply happened to meet Gwen in town during one of his frequent visits over the past few months? Or had he deliberately wormed his way into her life for whatever information he might glean from a woman close to Justine?

A woman who worked with her son, Noah…

Intent on getting answers, Justine put away her phone and made a beeline for the couple. Whatley glanced up, catching her eye and nodding amiably, looking nothing at all like a man guilty of deception.

But before Justine reached the pair, the double doors leading to the exam rooms opened, and Laney’s sisters and their cousins stood, their bodies tense and their faces brimming with fear and hope. Rather than joining them, Justine used the opportunity to pull aside the corporate Casanova.

While Ross spoke in low tones to the women, Justine stared a hole into Erik Whatley’s handsome face. Stared down at him, she realized, though she’d never noticed before that he was a few inches shorter than she. A touch shorter than Gwen as well, but no older than his mid-thirties, despite his early crop of gray.

“Explain,” Justine said, not a request but an order.

“Are you feeling better?” he asked, his smile warm. “I talked with your father earlier. I hope you received my message. Or any of the messages I’ve left.”

“Great flowers.” Her voice remained flat. “But that’s not what I’m asking and you know it. Tell me how long you’ve been seeing Gwen Bollinger. And why, exactly.”

“About three weeks, I think.” The professionally whitened smile widened. “And do you really have to ask? Just look at her. She’s gorgeous, smart, compassionate. With class to spare. I’m lucky.”

The enthusiasm sounded real, and Justine saw none of the physical tics that indicated subterfuge. “What about that wife you’ve mentioned? The one you said had the same taste in earrings I do?”

He grimaced, his face coloring. “Actually, she’s an ex-wife, from years ago. I was making conversation, you understand, to help establish common gro—”

“To suck up to try to score a sale, right?”

“I wouldn’t put it that way.”

“I’ll bet not,” she said. “So you swear you aren’t still married? Won’t take me ten minutes to find out if you’re lying.”

“Absolutely,” he said without the slightest hesitation, then offered the date and county of his divorce decree.

“And you aren’t seeing Gwen to get to me? To give yourself a little edge over Hal Smithfield? Because I swear to you, Whatley, if I find out you’ve been—”

“God, no,” he said sharply, his sudden shift in tone causing heads to turn their way. “And I have to tell you, Sheriff, I’m offended, damned offended, you would think that. What I feel for Gwen…I realize it’s only been a few weeks. But she’s become important to me. Important enough that I’d rather pull the bid from SHD than have you thinking I’d be base enough to—”

“That won’t be necessary,” Justine told him, more reassured by the redness of his face than his words. While any garden-variety liar could whip up a little canned outrage, she’d long ago learned that physiological responses were hard to fake. He bore watching, she decided, but there was no need to break out the blackjacks and rubber hoses quite yet.

“Thanks for the get-well flowers, Erik,” she said, using his given name for the first time, “and thanks for your concern, too. I hope things work out for you and Gwen. You’re right. She’s very special.”

With that, Justine offered her hand. And when he shook it, she took note of the fact that Whatley’s palms were sweating. Before she could decide what, if anything, to make of that, Ross walked toward her, his lean-limbed movements reminding her of what lay beneath the white coat he had borrowed to cover up his muddy clothes.

“Might I have a moment, Sheriff?”

“Absolutely,” she said. “Excuse me, Erik.”

“You should take Gwen home,” Ross told Whatley. “There’s really nothing you can do here.”

So Ross knew him, Justine realized. And accepted the man as his sister’s boyfriend.

“I’ll try,” Erik said to Ross before the two of them shook hands and parted.

As she walked toward the double doors with Ross, he said, “My family won’t go until I assure them Laney’s going to make it. They’ll stay all night if they have to, keeping vigil. It’s drilled into us from birth. And besides, my cousin Trudy will report anyone who cuts out early to my aunt and my mother when they get home.”

“Whatley, too?” she asked. “Is he part of the package?”

“Who? Oh, you mean Erik, right? Gwen’s new boyfriend. Seems like an okay guy. You know he’s from here, originally. Went through school with my other sister, Cherie. The one who lives in Houston now.”

Justine shook her head. “Sometimes I’m not sure how you keep the whole clan straight.”

“Most days, it’s worth the effort.” But he didn’t wear the look of a man counting his blessings. Behind his fatigue, she glimpsed a grimness she’d rarely seen in him before.

“How’s Laney?” Justine asked quickly, fighting a knee-jerk desire to wrap her arms around him and hold on tight, no matter who might be watching.

“I’ll tell you in here.” Ross passed through the heavy doors and pulled her around a corner into a second corridor lined with doorways. An empty corridor, at present.

Justine’s heartbeat picked up speed. If Ross’s cousin died, she could well take the identity of a killer with her. But Justine’s concern went deeper than solving the recent string of crimes, for she knew the anguish Laney’s loss would cost Ross’s family. Justine realized, too, that she’d been wrong to imagine Ross would blame her if his cousin didn’t make it. He would blame himself, instead, turning his wrath inward, just as Justine had done after her brother’s death.

Remembering the agony of her own guilt, the way her father could barely stand to look at her for so long, sent Justine careening back in time with a stomach-jolting lurch. To regain her equilibrium, she reached out for Ross’s hand. “This is going to be all right, I promise.”

“No, it isn’t.” Ignoring her hand, he scrubbed both of his along a jaw that needed shaving. “Laney’s still pretty out of it, but she’ll live. That’s not why I called you back here, though. I needed you in your official capacity. Because Dr. Tremont—he’s the attending in charge tonight—is doing a sexual-assault kit, Justine. He’s already told me he’s seen some evidence of…He believes my cousin was raped.”

“I’m so sorry.” The sadness washing over her was chased by guilt, as if her prayers that Noah hadn’t been molested had somehow deflected that fate onto Laney. Though Justine understood rationally that it was a ridiculous idea, the memory of her eleven-year-old self lay so close to the surface, she wasn’t feeling rational at all.

Except she would have to be—rational and reasonable. The professional who kept a tight lid on emotion. Because at this point, there were procedures to be followed, photographs to be taken, and evidence to be secured. Although Justine wouldn’t be in the room during the exam itself, she would serve to document, preserving the chain of evidence once the medical professional recovered whatever hair and fluids the assailant might have left behind.

“You should call the hotline,” Justine suggested, referring to the rape crisis volunteers who stood ready to come and act as the victim’s advocate or simply hold her hand through the ordeal.

“Not yet,” he said. “Laney’s still so out of it…”

“Call them,” Justine said, in part to give him some excuse to stay clear of the exam room and in part because he might want someone to talk to for his own sake. But even as the thought occurred, she knew he’d insist on slogging through his feelings solo. He would be the rock that the remainder of his family clung to during this ordeal.

Outside the private exam room where Laney and Dr. Tremont were, Justine kissed Ross’s cheek and turned to leave, only to notice one of the nurses in the corridor—Debbie Brown again—giving her the evil eye in passing.

Ignoring her completely, Justine walked into the exam room and focused on what needed to be done.

An hour later Harry Tremont found Ross lingering in the corridor near the exam room. No more than five foot two, Tremont looked up through a pair of steel-framed glasses that magnified his startlingly blue eyes.

“How is she?” Ross asked, worried by his old friend’s grim face.

“Sleeping at the moment, letting her body metabolize whatever she was given. Not much else we can do there. Core temperature’s back up to normal, and I’ve found no indication of significant injury, either internal or external. She’ll be sore, I expect…and we’ll need to keep an especially close eye on her for a few days.”

“Of course,” Ross said, imagining Laney’s grief when she was able to comprehend what had happened. “Believe me, the family’s not about to let her out of sight again. Not until whoever did this is locked up.”

But Tremont was shaking his head. “I don’t mean that. It’s…there’s no easy way to say this, and I wouldn’t even be telling you if you weren’t taking charge of her care. But I can’t offer your cousin Plan B.”

Also known as the morning-after pill, Plan B was routinely offered to rape victims to prevent the possibility of conception. Unless…“The pregnancy test came back positive?”

“Yes. We’ll want to do a vaginal ultrasound to be sure, but looking at the HCG levels from her blood work, she’s not far along. Four or five weeks, maybe.”

“I don’t…I had no idea.” Ross could scarcely believe it. If it was true—and blood tests were quite accurate—Laney would have to have conceived around the time of Jake’s death, and she had said herself that he had been suffering from sexual dysfunction. Which meant that there was someone else. Someone Laney hadn’t mentioned.

Could the pregnancy explain Laney’s strange behavior before she’d disappeared? Did she even know she was expecting? He had to talk to her, had to get some answers.

And he damned well meant to do so before saying a word about the situation to Justine.

By the time she signed over the kit to the deputy who would be responsible for transporting it to the medical examiner in Dallas, Justine was spent emotionally and aching for her own bed. Leaving Laney resting in a private room, with Ross sitting at her bedside, Justine headed for the exit, intent on getting home and catching at least a few hours of blessed oblivion before she woke her son to ready him for school.

As she threaded her way through the ER’s waiting room, she saw that the Bollinger-Thibodeaux clan had gone home to rest, knowing Laney’s condition was now stable. As Ross had said, she would live, but what her family didn’t know yet, what no one except Laney had the right to tell them, was that the patterns of bruising, blood, and semen found appeared to confirm Dr. Tremont’s suspicions of sexual assault.

Laney, in her lucid moments, had been perfectly compliant, but as far as answering questions, she’d been of no help whatsoever, singing snatches of song or weeping in response. Maybe she’d do better later, once her body neutralized whatever she had in her system. But Justine didn’t expect that Laney would remember much of anything about this evening, including her attacker. A mercy, perhaps, Justine thought as she crossed the dark lot.

If Laney had been given scopolamine, Dr. Tremont had explained she might well recall earlier events. Justine would interview her as soon as possible about her potential connection with Roger Savoy’s death. Though the singer appeared to be the victim in one crime, Justine could not discount the possibility that Laney had somehow been complicit in another. Her phone, which Justine had taken into evidence, had received a two-minute call from the deputy’s cellular the same night he’d been shot. Though that fact might mean nothing, it was the closest thing to a lead Justine had to go on.

Halfway to her vehicle, Justine noticed a silhouette peeling off from the shadows of some shrubbery, a man who broke into a jog as he headed her way. Facing the approaching person, she tensed reflexively and put her hand on her still-empty holster. Damned if she was letting anyone sneak up on her again.

Seeing her movement, the man drew up short. “Sorry, sorry.” He was huffing with exertion. “Guess a person should know better than to run up on a cop this time of night.”

Squinting to see, Justine motioned him toward her vehicle, where a security light reflected off damp concrete. “Over here, please, sir. And keep your hands where I can see ’em.”

She turned her body so he wouldn’t see her missing gun.

“Oh, sure, sure,” he said. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Dr. Fleming,” she said, recalling his round face from the single time she’d met him during the narcotics theft investigation. “What brings you outside the hospital this time of night?”

His mouth pulled into a chagrined look. “Cigarettes, can you believe it? A doctor should know better, yet somehow I keep smoking. And you’re not allowed, inside the hospital, so I just sneak out for a smoke break.”

“Addictions are a tough thing to stamp out altogether. You can subvert them, alter their form, but the basic tendency sticks with a person,” Justine said, causing him to look away, avoiding her gaze and all but cringing in response. Whether it was the flatness of her delivery or her expression, Justine was well aware of her ability to cause discomfort. Well aware, and not above using it to rattle witnesses and suspects.

Especially one who’d just lied to her, as Kenneth Fleming had. She saw no rectangular outline of a cigarette packet or lighter in the pocket of his white coat. More telling still, she didn’t smell a whiff of smoke on the man, either.

“Well, at least cigarettes and pie are legal.” Patting the soft swell of his stomach, Fleming laughed, the sound of his forced humor awkward.

Justine nodded in agreement. “So what can I do for you, Doctor?”

“I—I heard something about Ross’s—Dr. Bollinger’s—cousin inside. Of course, I wasn’t meant to, but the emergency department’s so small, it’s hard not to—”

“Not many secrets in my office, either,” she said. “Someone forgets to log off a computer, or background checks come in on a common fax…And we run a lot of background checks there. On practically everyone in any way related to our investigations.”

Tired as she was, she kept the heat on, her gaze unblinking, her full attention primed to capture whatever information his nervousness might shake loose.

“I just wanted you to know, before it came up in your investigation,” Fleming told her, “I’ve been seeing Laney, sort of.”

“By ‘sort of,’ you mean what, exactly?”

Again, he looked away. “We’ve had coffee a few times this month.”

“Coffee?” Justine asked, wondering when he’d get to the sex part. Because there had to be a sex part, as unlikely as he looked for the role of the young singer’s lover. Why else, she wondered, would he come to find her, except to claim a consensual relationship? The sort of relationship that would explain his semen being on Laney Thibodeaux’s undergarments and her person.

Fleming shrugged his rounded shoulders. “We’ve met over at the Grind. You know, the place my wife used to manage? Ex-wife, I mean, but I still keep hoping…”

“You’re trying to make your ex jealous? Thinking word might get back to her?”

Nodding, he answered, “I know. It’s pathetic. Connie’s moved on with her life. She took the kids and went to Fort Worth. But I haven’t given up yet.”

“So you were proving your devotion by screwing some little singer in her twenties?”

Fleming’s gaze jerked to her face. “I wasn’t sleeping with her. For God’s sake, I only said we went for coffee. She’s nice to talk to, you know?”

There was no mistaking the flare of his anger, so different from the poor-pitiful-loser persona he had been projecting. Was it the sort of anger that erupted into violence? The kind that might drive a frustrated man to rape?

Justine made a mental note to call the ex-wife, to find out if she was looking at a pattern of behavior.

“You’re sure it was just talking?” she pressed. “You don’t want to consult a lawyer?”

He glowered at her, moving closer. “You can go to hell, you know that? I come out here, of my own accord, to give you some information, and you’re twisting it into something sordid. Something criminal.”

“Occupational hazard,” Justine said dryly. “And you’ll want to stop there, maybe take a step back. Otherwise, you’re likely to find out another occupational hazard: a cop’s reaction to getting crowded physically.”

He backed off, his face resentful. “This far enough, Sheriff?”

“It’ll do. So tell me, Dr. Fleming, what’s this information you had for me? Other than the fact that you’ve been seen with Miss Thibodeaux and she had your number in her bedroom. ”

“So Ross told you about that.” Fleming sounded hurt.

Ross had been right about him. The guy was a crybaby.

“His cousin was a missing person,” she said, “one we had every reason to believe was in imminent danger. Speaking of which, has she said anything to you, anything at all about anybody bothering her? Anyone who gave her the creeps?”

If Fleming meant to pull a SODDI, the infamous Some Other Dude Did It defense, now would be the time for him to volunteer his theory. But instead, he shook his head and avoided her eyes as he answered, “Not that she ever mentioned. To tell you the truth, we mostly talked about our losses. Her fiancé and my family.”

Those must have been some really swell dates. But even as the thought occurred, Justine wondered how it would have been for her if she’d had someone with whom to share her grief in those first weeks after Lou’s death. If she’d let her guard down rather than putting on her tough-girl act and throwing herself into winning the right to complete his remaining term of office. If she’d trusted anyone enough, maybe she would have been thinking clearly. Clearly enough to see that others were leading her into ethically dicey territory.

But when it came to her emotions, Justine only knew how to play defense. Her father had certainly driven home that lesson.

You don’t get to lie there moping, bellyaching about how you miss your brother. You lost that right when you killed him. Over a damned dog.

As an adult, Justine understood how much he’d been hurting when he’d lashed out with those words. But the wounded child in her had never quite been able to forgive him.

And neither one of them had ever again brought up the conversation.

“So what else did you come out here to tell me?” she asked Kenneth Fleming.

“That Laney Thibodeaux’s a nice person, and it makes me sick that someone’s hurt her.” He made firm eye contact this time, as if to underscore his sincerity. Or convince her of it. “So I’ll be glad to do anything, anything at all I can, to help with your investigation.”

“Glad to hear you feel that way.” Justine opened the passenger door of her Expedition. “Why don’t you climb in?”

“Get in? But I’m on duty right now,” he protested.

“I won’t keep you away long, Dr. Fleming. All I’ll need is a handwriting sample,” she told him. “And a cheek swab, of course. To cross-check DNA.”

Chapter Eighteen

One should forgive one’s enemies, but not before they are hanged.

—Heinrich Heine

How could it have gone so wrong?

I thought for sure she would be happy. Delighted to be unshackled from encumbrance. Thrilled she had been granted the liberty to soar.

And the freedom to give herself to me completely, with no drugs, no coercion. Only gratitude for all the risks and sacrifices I have made to please her, all the hours of research on my chosen method.

(Did you know that back in 1916, a circus elephant named Mary was hanged to death in Tennessee for the “intentional murder” of her assistant trainer? Messy affair, with its industrial crane and snapped chain and horrifying bellows as the poor, doomed beast fell, leading to the necessity of a second, ultimately successful attempt at execution. But untidy or not, the spectacle had no shortage of onlookers, no, sirree. According to accounts, over twenty-five hundred showed up to check out the spectacle. I often wonder how they managed the next time they felt the need for entertainment. How can one top the most sublime form of brutality man has to offer?)

But I digress, as I’m prone to do when I get on this topic. Let’s move back, shall we, to the bitch who sent me such clear signals, then feigned indifference—worse than indifference—when the moment came. As if she’d planned all along to use me to do her bidding, to put the others out of her way so she could turn her back on me.

Should have killed the scheming whore right then, led her straight to the scene of the crimes (her crimes, for how can I be blamed in all this?), slipped the noose around her neck, and hoisted her aloft, like poor, damned Mary, back in Tennessee.

Only in this case, how satisfying it would have been to see the kicking of slender human legs, to reach up and feel her (not yours, never yours, dear) twitching slow to stillness as her body gave up its warmth, degree by slow degree.

It would have been a pleasure, always, to think back on such an artful act of vengeance, one sanctified by history and justified by circumstance.

Hurt as I was, how could I have given in instead to a few minutes’ animalistic pleasure, then allowed her to wander off with evidence inside her? By the time I calmed down enough to think things through, to return to take care of our unfinished business and consign her weighted body to the cleansing waters, the little bitch had passed beyond my reach—and into the custody of others.

But she cannot, will not, stay safe forever. Nor will anyone, particularly any woman, who ever again stands in my way. Given what I’ve learned, I can as easily hang two or even three as one. (That pretty golden sandal, still dangling from a toe.)

In fact, I rather hope to.

For I have seen the elephant, and it takes more to please me now.

Friday, October 23

Ross deliberately misled the other members of his family, allowing them to think Laney wouldn’t be discharged till Saturday. And he showed up early Friday morning, before visiting hours began—his only shot at talking to her without a horde of relations interrupting.

Once an aide helped her dress and brush her hair, Ross wheeled Laney downstairs and assisted her into his car. Her color looked good, her eyes were clearer, and she looked more like herself, wearing blue jeans and a light cotton sweater. Still, she barely responded to his attempts at conversation until he drove out of the lot.

Slowing for a moment, Ross pulled on his sunglasses against the morning glare.

“I want to go home,” she burst out, her voice shaking. “Please don’t take me to Trudy’s.”

“Sorry, Laney. Trudy’s taken some time off so she can be with you, but with the kids, there’s no way she can go to your—”

“She blames me. Blames my lifestyle.”

“Did Trudy say that?” He coasted into an intersection and waited for the white van in the lane opposite to proceed.

“She didn’t have to. She’s always after me to finish college, and when I moved in with Jake, she acted like my life was over, when he was the one who…” Unable to finish, Laney shook her head.

“I know you miss him, and I understand this is a hard time for you,” Ross said. “But maybe you should cut your sister a little slack now. She’s trying. We all are.”

“You understand nothing.”

Ross glanced at her, stung by the bitterness in her voice. “So explain it to me. I’m listening, Laney.”

When she said no more, he pressed. “Maybe we should talk about the pregnancy, for starters.”

“No. I don’t want to—I can’t. I haven’t even decided whether to go through with…” Fanning out her fingers, she covered her eyes. “And I swear, Ross, if you tell anybody, even Trudy, I’m packing my stuff and I’m leaving. And this time, I won’t be coming back.”

Ahead of them, lights flashed and railroad-crossing arms dropped. He caught sight of the train and stopped to wait. “I don’t want you to leave. No one does. When you were missing, all I could think of was that damned noose, your friends’ bodies out by that lake. So don’t threaten me with taking off again.”

She looked at him sharply, her eyes flaring in surprise. “I’m sorry, Ross. I’m sorry. I didn’t think about…It hurts so much right now, I can’t see anything but black walls all around me.”

“We’re all inside them sometimes.” Ross wished like hell he could back off now instead of upsetting her even more by pushing. But there was no other way, so he forged ahead, counting on the car’s close confines as much as the bonds of shared affection to keep her from storming off. “Who’s the father, Laney? Who are you involved with?”

If he knew that, he’d have some idea where she’d been heading the night she’d been assaulted. Armed with this information, Justine might be able to track down the man who’d hurt her, who’d left her wandering where the cold rain could have killed her. Though he hadn’t yet shared the news of Laney’s pregnancy, he’d do that, too, if he had to, if he thought it would lead to an arrest. And to putting Laney on the first step to recovery.

The train’s engine gave a whistle, then crossed before them, cars rattling on the rails.

When she failed to answer, he added, “Is it Kenneth Fleming? I know the two of you have something—”

She made a face. “No way—Kenneth? I mean, he’s a nice enough person to talk to over coffee, for an old guy, but it isn’t like that with us. I’ve never thought of him that way.”

“What about him? Because I can tell you, when a forty-something doctor starts taking out a sweet young thing, it’s not about the conversation.”

Laney shot him a disgusted look. “You know, not every man’s got his head in his pants every second of the day.”

“So you’re telling me Kenneth couldn’t be the father?”

“What if I said it was Jake’s?” she asked. “What if I said we were together one last time in those last few days?”

Railcars rattled past, many of them covered with graffiti. He thought he saw one carrying cattle en route to their deaths.

“But earlier, you told the sheriff and me he couldn’t—”

“Would you believe me, Ross? Or have you and that woman already decided I’m a whore, too, not just a liar?”

“Fine,” he said. “Why don’t we talk about that file in your desk drawer instead?”

“So you were the one who went through my things.”

“Absolutely. Would’ve gone through your computer files, too, if you hadn’t had a password. Would’ve done whatever it took to find you and bring you home safe.”

“I—I’m sorry.” As the rail arms rose ahead of them, her eyes gleamed in the morning light. “Sorry I’ve been snapping. I appreciate what you did. You…you know that, don’t you? I’m just…This all makes me so mad, and I don’t know how to deal with it.”

Ross nodded, thinking she had plenty of reason to be angry. It was going to take a lot of time and understanding to get her through this crisis.

And he had both to spare. Driving forward, he said, “Don’t be sorry, Laney. Just tell me about those notes I found. Some of them were pretty personal. A few were downright scary.”

“Sheriff Wofford asked about them, too. I guess she has them, and I already gave her the password and permission to take my laptop and look through it. She’s trying to track down whoever wrote those really weird notes, just in case the guy’s the same one…” She sniffled once, then straightened, wiping at her eyes.

“You had e-mail from this same person?”

“A couple, yeah. I’m pretty sure it was the same guy who left that note I found in my guitar case after a show.”

“You know for sure it was a man?”

She shook her head. “I just…It would have to be, right? Or I guess maybe not. But anyway, the e-mails weren’t signed either, and the address just looked like a bunch of random numbers.”

“Sounds like stalking, Laney. Why on earth wouldn’t you report it?”

She shook her head. “At first, they didn’t seem so bad. Not so much worse than the others. And even later, they were never really threats, so I thought if I didn’t encourage him, they’d stop.”

Sometimes, her naiveté appalled him. “Why didn’t you tell someone? Mention it to me, or—”

“You were sick, Ross. I wasn’t going to bother you about it.”

“Well, what about the guys in the band?”

She shook her head. “Jake had enough on his mind, and Hart was so broken up over his divorce. Which left Caleb, and our agent had already warned him he had to keep his nose clean. What if he got into another fight about it?”

“Then why not talk to someone from the family? Your sisters or your mother, maybe.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. They were all over me about moving in with Jake already.” She chuffed a humorless laugh. “If I’d shown them those messages, they’d have probably had me kidnapped by deprogrammers.”

He smiled, imagining one of those ministries that specialized in rescuing cult members attempting to pray the rhythm out of Laney.

“I did ask Kenneth about it. I thought…Well, I knew he was a friend of yours, and he’s older, so I—”

In the driver’s seat, Ross stiffened. “I’m not sure I’d call Kenneth my friend.”

Laney shrugged. “He certainly feels that way about you.”

Ross frowned, thinking that down-on-his-luck Kenneth might have said anything for a shot at Laney. “So what did he say about the messages?”

“He didn’t think it was anything the authorities would worry over, but he could see I was starting to get a little worried. With Hart and Jake gone, the idea of dying started to seem more…I don’t know…real to me.”

Ross remembered himself at twenty-two, remembered the way mortality seemed like something that happened only to other people. Old people, mainly, though med school quickly disabused him of that notion.

As the final rail cars slipped away, the lights stopped flashing, and the crossing arms rose to let them pass.

“So what did he say?” Ross asked. “What did he do for you?”

“Kenneth made me feel safe.” Laney smiled, though her eyes looked deeply troubled. “For a little while, at least, he let me live in that illusion.”

Beyond Justine’s office window, darkness had long since banished the soft red tail of twilight. The building itself had mostly fallen quiet, with Rose the dispatcher holed up with one of her beloved paperbacks down the hall and the evening-shift deputies out on routine calls.

Engrossed in comparing Roger Savoy’s phone records to what few handwritten case notes Calvin had found at his desk, Justine started at the ringing phone, then cursed when she saw the name on the caller ID window.

Grimacing, she picked up. “I’m making progress,” she told County Judge Ellis Major, current head of the commissioners’ court and bane of her existence.

“That budget was to have been on my desk by five o’clock sharp.” His voice was as cold and harsh as the dour face she kept pinned to her mental dartboard. “Either that or your resignation, Sheriff.”

Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? “So I’m supposed to back-burner a case involving the murder of a member of this department and what’s looking a hell of a lot like a serial killer to push papers? Would you like to explain that to Roger Savoy’s family or the families of those men who were hanged? Maybe you should just write an editorial for the paper, let them all know where your priorities are right now.”

“There’s no need to take that tone with me.”

Justine snorted, amused that someone so obnoxious would chastise her on the point. “You’re right,” she allowed. “There wouldn’t be. If you’d expressed the slightest concern or maybe asked me how the investigation’s going. Or how my son is doing.”

“Of course I’m concerned about all this mess. Went to speak to Marilyn Savoy myself and personally assured her we’re doing everything in our power to bring in her husband’s killer.”

Justine could imagine how that conversation had gone, with Marilyn Savoy pouring poison in the ear of a man who already considered Justine an embarrassment. Or perhaps a risk, since she knew damned well he’d been “assisted” into office by the same power brokers who’d helped her along.

“And your boy has been in my prayers, mine and Willa’s both, along with the families of those zydeco people.” He said the final words with distaste, reflecting his dim view of what she’d heard him more than once refer to as the barfly crowd. A strident Christian fundamentalist, Major didn’t waste a lot of sympathy on those he saw as sinners.

“Nevertheless,” Major continued, “we still have a responsibility to the taxpayers of this county. And you have a responsibility to do what you know you must. So which is it, Mrs. Wofford—”

“Sheriff Wofford,” she corrected, unwilling to let that slight go unchallenged.

“Sheriff. Have you decided to go with CorrecTex or Southern Humane Detentions? Because, the way I see it, there’s no other choice. Not without closing the hospital’s emergency department.”

Justine winced, imagining the uproar if the county’s citizens, her own family included, were forced to travel more than forty miles to get to the next closest emergency department. Imagining Ross’s reaction to the loss of the job that clearly meant so much to him.

“Interesting way to put it, as an either-or choice,” she said. “Law enforcement or the hospital—nice way to set us at each other’s throats. Sort of takes the focus off your damned bridge, doesn’t it?”

A pet project of Major’s, the bridge across an arm of Bone Lake’s south end was something he’d promised to accomplish without raising taxes. He might have managed the feat, too, if not for the current economic downturn.

“That bridge will finally bring real development to the lakeshore. It’ll pay for itself in increased tax revenues in fifteen years. See if it doesn’t.”

“So tell the voters that in public hearings. Tell ’em the money picture’s changed and you’re going to have to raise taxes now to pave the way for prosperity later. You’re a trained trial lawyer. You can sell it.”

“I gave the taxpayers my word, so let’s say we go with Southern Humane Detentions, shall we? I believe they offer the more advantageous package.”

She’d figured this was coming—figured and planned for it. “And I believe I saw Erik Whatley’s Cadillac parked by your house when I drove past yesterday. Which makes the third time I’ve seen it there this past week. Documented it, too—which makes me wonder what I’d come up with if I dug into your finances?”

A long pause followed…but Judge Major didn’t hang up. At length, he said, “You mess with me, I’ll bury you. I know enough to—”

“Here are my conditions,” she said. “I’ll cut the budget by precisely one-third of what you asked. And I’ll stay out of your business—if you take privatizing my jail off the table and you leave this county with a viable ER. Otherwise, I’ll be coming for you, and you can bet I know just where to look.”

“But you’ll be equally exposed—”

“Too bad a religious man like you doesn’t play poker,” she said. “Because if you did, you’d damned well know I never bluff.”

A few minutes later, Justine hung up, smiling. Justine, who had never played a hand of poker like her husband, but knew how to bluff just fine.

At the sound of a throat clearing, she looked up to see Larry Crane in the doorway, his face flushed and gleaming beneath a layer of perspiration. Her mood evaporating, she wondered, How long had he been there, and how much had he heard?

In his hand, he held a manila file folder, which he used to fan his sweating face. “Could I…could I speak to you, Sheriff?”

“You coming down with something?” she asked. “Because if you are, don’t come one step nearer.”

She was already working close to the edge of exhaustion. Getting sick now was definitely not an option.

As Larry closed the door, she noticed his hand shaking. “No sense taking chances on anyone overhearing,” he said. “I’ve gotta ask you something, Sheriff. And I need a straight answer.”

Alarmed at what she heard in his voice, Justine surged to her feet, her height barely exceeding his in her heels. “What is it? What’s wrong?” For this wasn’t the awkward scapegoat the guys called Ichabod, but an entirely unfamiliar Larry Crane who stood before her.

“Who’s behind the money you took? Really behind it, I mean.”

Searing shame shot through her, with anger on its heels. Had he been eavesdropping? “What the hell would make you ask that now?” she demanded. After all, he hadn’t dared when the accusations first arose—none of the deputies had, for fear of losing their jobs, though she knew they’d talked among themselves about it plenty.

“Just tell me,” he demanded. “Otherwise, I’m done.”

A sigh slid loose. “I don’t know,” she said. “You can believe me or not; that’s up to you. When the money turned up in my accounts, I really did think it had something to do with one of Lou’s investments. Maybe a less-than-legitimate one, but I was in too much of a financial bind to look a gift horse in the mouth.”

She knew she should have, had regretted the decision ever since. But there could be no changing it at this point.

“So you never heard Sheriff Wofford—the old Sheriff Wofford, I mean—mention this Sunrise Happy Doodle International?”

She snorted, a sound half disgust, half laughter. “Are you kidding? I’m pretty damned sure I would have remembered a name like that. But I don’t get it. Why dredge all this up right now?” Did you just get your balls out of cold storage?

“Because I finally got the chance to go through Roger’s banking records.” Larry slapped down the file folder on the edge of her desk. “And you’ll never guess what I found.”

“Wire transfer records?” she guessed. “Deposits from the same offshore…”

She didn’t bother finishing but instead flipped open the file to find the highlighted information. Sure enough, she found a pair of deposits, twenty grand each, from the same offshore entity. “What the hell is this?”

“Good question,” said Larry, and in spite of his gawky physical appearance, he looked as sharply focused as any investigator she’d seen. “And whatever it is, I intend to find out. Wherever it leads me.”

She grimaced at his tone, though she respected the fair warning. “You be sure and do that, Deputy. And here, let me get you a card.” Pulling open her top desk drawer, she plucked out a card from Troy Macomb, the Texas Ranger who’d been doing his damnedest to bring her down. “Why don’t you call this fellow? Compare notes if you need to.”

Larry took the card, his hand still trembling and his expression abruptly turning sheepish. “I came here half expecting you would fire me. Like Savoy.”

She felt her brows climb. “You figure you’d end up shot, too, in my pasture?”

His eyes flared. “Of-of course not, Sheriff. N-no, I never thought about that.”

He sounded amazed, as if he’d suddenly realized his bravado might put him in greater danger than the risk of unemployment.

Justine dredged up a wry smile. “Calm down, why don’t you? Crisis is averted. Your job’s safer now than ever, and if I’m ever tempted to really off a deputy, I can think of several candidates ahead of your name on the list.”

Larry relaxed visibly, tension ebbing from his stance and voice. “You know, when I saw that same exact unexplained wire transfer on Savoy’s bank records, I got to wondering if you both might be dirty, and if the other guys were right, if I’ve been a fool to trust you. I might be a fool about a lot of other things, but I’ve gotta tell you, I am damned glad believing in you wasn’t one of them.”

As he left her with a copy of the bank statements, Justine sat back in her chair and smiled, thinking that was probably the most reassuring thing she’d heard all week. Which didn’t mean that tempting fate by inviting her deputy to call the Ranger as she had would not come back to bite her in the ass.

Chapter Nineteen

If lying were a capital crime, the hangman would work overtime.

—Proverb

Saturday, October 24

Though Caleb LeJeune’s service was sparsely attended, to Ross’s surprise someone with taste and money had clearly organized it, judging from the rich wood of the casket, the fineness of the red-and-white flowers, and the quality of the memorial cards that had been printed. Either that or Caleb’s mother had been so shell-shocked by grief, she’d allowed the funeral director to talk her deeply into debt in order to send off her son in style.

But Ross, who’d come in Laney’s place to represent the family, didn’t believe it. No one in his right mind, especially the third-generation owner of the Peaceful Slumber Funeral Home, would extend credit to a woman surviving on disability on Tanager Trail, much less one raising three grandchildren on her own.

After the minister wound down, Ross waited for a few T-shirt-and-jeans-clad mourners to speak to the family. Among them, he spotted familiar faces: from a stringy-haired young woman he’d seen after her common-law husband had blackened both of her eyes to an unshaven, middle-aged man who had sawed off two of his own fingers last year using power tools while drunk.

The fact that both were neighbors, Ross decided, didn’t bode well for the chances of Caleb LeJeune’s three beautiful, blond children. The older of the two girls—Ross thought she looked about ten—already wore the sullen, streetwise look of a runaway in the making, and every one of them, down to the littlest, a preschool-age boy, had been dressed in clothing too threadbare and ill fitting for school, much less their father’s funeral. But it was clean, at least, as were their faces; their grandmother was trying.

As the neighbors straggled out, Ross walked toward the thickset woman standing with the children near the casket. Dee’s dark blue dress fit poorly, and her fried yellow hair had two inches of gray at the roots. Ross introduced himself while, beside the woman, the little boy kicked at his sister, the red sole of his torn sneaker flapping like a tongue.

Ross decided on the spot to set up a fund to benefit the family. He was well aware who had money in this county, and he knew how to approach them for anonymous donations. Heaven only knew he’d given enough to their pet causes, both personally and through the Chester R. Bollinger Foundation, to cash in a few chips.

From the corner of his eye, Ross noticed a mourner he hadn’t spotted earlier. A trim man with a shaved head and a dark soul patch beneath his lower lip, he had been sitting near the back. Other than Ross and the funeral director, the stranger was the only male present in a suit. Unless Caleb, inside his closed casket, was better dressed in death than Ross had ever seen him living. “I’m very sorry for your loss,” he told Caleb’s mother.

“Thank you,” Dee LeJeune said, her puffy eyes glazed behind thick glasses.

“Laney sends her regrets she couldn’t be here. She asked me to tell you.”

A shadow passed over a face already bruised by grief. “I-I heard about that poor girl. How is she?”

Ross wondered how Dee might have heard, since the names of sexual-assault victims were withheld from the press. But in a town the size of Dogwood, there were far more efficient avenues of information, the kind that neither privacy laws nor common decency could muzzle.

“She’s resting comfortably,” he answered, though there was nothing either comfortable or restful about Laney’s state of mind. Sore, tearful, and unable to be left alone, she was “incarcerated,” as she put it, at Trudy’s house, where she’d been by turns depressed, furious, terrified, and resentful. Ross didn’t envy Trudy the task of dealing with her, especially with two toddlers in the house.

“My Caleb adored Laney. Does she…does she know who the sorry son of a…” Dee cut a look down at the children. Obviously bored by the adults’ conversation, the boy was practicing more ninja kicks, while the girls, keeping a safe distance, scuffed their feet and plucked the petals off a floral arrangement Ross had sent in his cousin’s name. “Did she tell who did it?”

Ross shook his head. “Not yet.” And probably not ever, since the toxicology report on her blood sample had indeed indicated the presence of scopolamine.

Not that that explained all the questions Laney couldn’t answer. Or would not.

“Do you think…” Dee whispered. “Do you think he was the same one that…you know?” She jerked her chin toward her son’s flower-covered casket.

“That’s a question for the sheriff, I think,” Ross said.

“That woman don’t tell me anything. All I know’s the cause of death’s still ‘undetermined.’ As if anybody with good sense could believe my boy would…would’ve…” Face reddening, Dee dabbed at her eyes with a fistful of wadded tissue. “Not with these three to look after. No, sir, he would never do it. He swore it to me, after the first two…”

The corpulent, dark-suited funeral director appeared as if by magic and offered her fresh Kleenex, then discreetly col lected her trash. Considering the man’s size—Ross placed him at around three-fifty—he moved quietly, with a practiced dignity that did his family’s reputation proud.

But subtle as it was, Ross used the interruption and the arrival of several men he thought might be musicians to politely extricate himself. As he turned to leave, he spotted the older of the LeJeune girls dipping her head, her face flushing and her gaze cutting toward the back of the room.

Ross looked to see Justine standing beside the exit, her gaze sharp as she studied the family and remaining mourners. Though she wore a black suit rather than her uniform, the expression on her face left no doubt she was here in her official capacity.

She nodded, acknowledging his approach, and for a moment he feared she wouldn’t speak to him in public.

Instead, she shared a strained smile. “I’ve seen all I need to. Want to get some air?”

He felt an absurd rush of gratitude, and he wondered if she’d thought about the things he’d told her in the wake of their lovemaking. If she was making a first effort to step into the light.

He followed her into the lobby area. “Caleb’s little girl…she looked upset to see you.”

Justine gave a tight-lipped nod and whispered, “Outside.”

They walked out beneath a portico, with its classic colonnades gleaming white in the bright sunshine. The chill of two nights earlier had dissipated, giving way to a sparkling autumn afternoon with temperatures in the low seventies. Surrounding the funeral home, pines and a towering magnolia tree stood motionless, their greenery soaking in the sun.

“Her grandma brought her to my office yesterday, told me I had every right to throw her in the lockup; she wouldn’t stand in my way. Poor kid was scared spitless. Thought for sure she’d end up in juvie.”

Ross shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“Dee finally got the littler ones to tell her that Tara, the oldest, was responsible for that sudden headache I came down with last Monday. The deputies investigating suspected they knew something, but those kids clammed up something fierce.”

“You’re kidding. A little girl hit you? She…she could’ve killed you.”

“I expect she meant to at that moment. She’s one seriously angry kid. As far as she knows, law enforcement has brought nothing but misery to her family. And that day, I’m pretty sure she hung back and listened to me tell her grandmother about her father.”

“My God.” Ross had seen some tough stories come out of Tanager Trail, but because of the child’s age, this one seemed particularly wrenching. “So what are you going to do with her? Obviously she’s not in custody.”

Justine shook her head. “That kid needs counseling, not juvie, and she needs her family if she’s going to get things turned around. I’m getting her—all of ’em—hooked up with some free sessions, and Dee’s signed an agreement to take them to avoid getting Children’s Protective Services involved.”

“A lot of people wouldn’t be as understanding.” Ross, however, wasn’t surprised by her compassion, not after seeing the way she dealt with Noah.

“Kids…” She shrugged. “Who doesn’t have a soft spot? Fortunately, mine isn’t my skull, and I have half-decent health insurance.”

From the magnolia tree, a bird trilled, drawing their attention.

“Gorgeous day,” Ross said, noticing how the light exposed dark circles beneath Justine’s eyes. Probably working around the clock, he thought.

“Wasted on a freaking funeral. I hate the things.”

He nodded. “Once a person’s buried a spouse, these services’re like a knife jabbed in an old wound.”

She grimaced but said nothing, reminding him that her loss was still less than a year old. In time, she might be ready to move past it. But for the moment, he shouldn’t blame her for not wanting to expose herself again to such pain. Five years after Anne’s death, he was only beginning to believe that any relationship might be worth the risk.

No, that wasn’t right. He didn’t believe it of just any relationship. But for a real relationship, with Justine, he’d put his heart on the line, despite her baggage.

“Roger’s funeral’s Monday,” she said, “but I’m pretty sure his wife won’t let me anywhere near it.”

“His wife blames you?” Ross guessed.

Justine nodded. “And she’s telling anyone who’ll listen. Which included the DA, who came to collect my gun so he could have it independently tested for ballistics. To which I could only say, ‘What gun, Herb? It just so happens that somebody jumped me and stole it night before last.’”

Ross winced. “Are you in trouble, Justine?”

To his surprise, she smiled and waved away the question. “Always. But don’t worry. I’m wading through it, same as ever. How is Laney?”

“She won’t see anyone, and she’s giving her sister Trudy hell.”

“Understandable,” Justine said. “If Laney weren’t upset, I’d be suspicious.”

Ross frowned down at Justine. “Are you? After everything that’s happened? And what’s going on with the investigation?”

She blew out a long exhalation. “Let’s just say we’re progressing, interviewing registered sex offenders in the area, trying to get a bead on whether any of them have been hanging out at Hammett’s or the Tin Roof or showing a special interest in your cousin.”

“What about Fleming?” Ross asked. “He called in sick last night. And I heard you took him down to the station Thursday night, or Friday morning, I guess it would be.”

“Who told you that?”

“It was all around the hospital.” Ross decided to keep Debbie Brown’s name out of it. Debbie Brown, who was still watching him intently. Watching and waiting for the chance to suggest herself as a healthier alternative to Justine, he imagined.

Justine pressed her lips together, and for a moment, Ross thought she would explain what was going on. Instead, she shook her head. “I’m sorry; I really can’t go into detail. All I can tell you is that we’re casting our net widely, so please don’t stop by Kenneth’s house and deck him.”

“I’m not going to hit Kenneth.” Ross flashed on an image of himself popping the Pillsbury Doughboy in the stomach. “But if he does turn out to be involved, I’d have no trouble dragging his flabby white ass to jail.”

Ross imagined a weakling like Fleming would quickly gain an all-new perspective on rape, once he was sent to the state prison.

“I’ll need to talk to Laney again,” Justine said. “Can you speak to her about it? Ever since our interview at the hospital before her release, she’s been putting me off.”

“She says she’s already told you everything she can remember.”

Justine’s expression went opaque. Ross was guessing she was thinking of his cousin’s claim that she had no memory of speaking by phone to Roger Savoy, nor of seeing him the night of his death. If Laney was to be believed, she remembered nothing after climbing into her car, a car that remained missing, to leave her mother’s house the afternoon she’d vanished.

Not even Ross was sure he bought that. “I want to be there when you two talk,” he said, then fudged the truth by adding, “Laney wants me there, too.”

Justine said only, “Your cousin Trudy’s not helping one bit, either, making Laney’s excuses and asking why we have to put her through this when she can’t recall. The thing is, the answer’s probably somewhere in the stuff Laney can remember, if we can only tease it out and recognize it.”

“Like your Book of Questions, right?”

Justine nodded. “You keep studying it hard enough and you get to jot some verifiable data in your Book of Known Facts. You mess up, though, make faulty assumptions or buy into someone’s deceit, it ends up working out bass-ackwards.”

“I’ll speak to Laney. Trudy, too,” he promised. “And I’ll bring Laney to your office tomorrow—oh, but tomorrow’s Sunday. Will you be on duty?”

“Just call my cell and let me know when and where you’d like to meet, and I’ll be there. And thanks, Ross.” Her gaze connected with his, lingered. He might have imagined that it softened.

“How are you, Justine?” he asked, though he really meant, How are we?

From the look of her, she understood the unspoken question. “I don’t know, Ross. But I did get one piece of good news. The Texas Rangers have closed their corruption investigation. Hard as they worked it, they couldn’t nail down where the money came from and didn’t have sufficient evidence of intent to go for an indictment.”

“So was there? Intent, I mean,” he asked quietly, hating to pry but needing to know…and praying that this time, Justine would give an honest answer. An answer he could live with.

She shook her head, her expression pained. “If they’d been looking for evidence of idiocy, they could’ve found plenty. In those first months after Lou died, I barely knew what was going on around me. I certainly didn’t have the mental where-withal to think about the ethical and legal implications of using the unexpected money that showed up in Lou’s account.”

Ross felt a weight lift. “That’s not idiocy, Justine. That’s grief. I made some piss-poor decisions of my own in that first year. Did a few things I’m not proud of.”

He still wondered, during that time, how he’d continued working in the emergency department of a busy Houston hospital. And how many of his patients had suffered for it, lost to his black haze.

She stared at him, emotion welling in her dark gaze. Then, to his astonishment, she hugged him without even glancing around to see who might be watching. “Thanks, Ross. You make me feel…almost like I might deserve…”

Before he could react, the door beside them opened and Justine backed away.

“Mr. Cordero,” she said as the bald man in the dark suit walked out. An expensive dark suit, with fine black shoes to go with it. No tie, though, just an open collar, a look he managed to pull off, along with the single diamond stud in each of his earlobes.

Ross realized this was Simon Cordero, the band’s agent, whom Ross had never met in person. Ross pegged him for early forties, though it was tough to tell, with the shaved head and his barely lined olive complexion. About Ross’s height, too, he noticed.

Cordero turned to look at Justine, a crease deepening between his dark brows. Yet he didn’t look irritated, merely puzzled. “May I help you…is it Sheriff?”

She nodded. “Justine Wofford. We spoke earlier by phone. I appreciate your willingness to answer questions.”

“Of course.” He gave a self-deprecating shrug. “I only wish I’d known anything useful.”

Ross extended his hand and introduced himself. He’d completely forgotten the agent was coming in from Austin for Caleb’s funeral. But Ross had been so rushed when he’d called Cordero, so desperate for information about Laney’s whereabouts, he’d given no more thought to the agent, except to ask Trudy to let him know they’d found Laney.

There was no mistaking the concern in Cordero’s expression. “How is she? I’ve called, but she won’t talk to me. I’m worried.”

Ross wondered, Does he know, too, what happened? But Trudy wouldn’t have shared such private information with a stranger. Nor would Ross, though hospital or sheriff’s department gossip might have spread it God only knew how far already.

“She’s pretty upset about her friends,” he explained. “And she’s had some other problems. Threats against her, for one thing.”

Alarm flashed over Cordero’s expression. “Not again.”

“You were aware of previous threats?” Justine asked.

“Caleb mentioned that there had been a few notes. My God.” Cordero’s eyes widened and his color deepened. “You don’t think this could all be related?”

“Caleb told you?” Ross asked, remembering that Laney had said she hadn’t told him. Had Caleb discovered the messages on his own, or had Laney lied about it?

“It’s an ongoing investigation,” Justine said in response to the agent’s question.

“What’s going on with Laney?” he asked. “And what can I do to help?”

Before either Ross or Justine could answer, Cordero added, “You want me to get her out of town? I’ll do it. I have a condo on Lake Travis, a little getaway of mine. It’s in a gated community with a good burglar alarm, too, and security close by. My wife and I will take good care of her, Mr. Bollinger.”

Ross had worked with doctors who would have corrected him about the “Mr.,” but he wasn’t one of them. “It’s kind of you to offer, but the family wants to keep her close so we can—”

“That’s very generous of you,” Justine interrupted. “And I understand you covered the cost of Caleb’s funeral, too?”

Cordero glanced over his shoulder, as if to assure himself no one else had overheard. Raising his palms, he lowered his voice. “Mr. Richardson assured me we could keep the arrangement quiet. Caleb…Caleb always said that if the band could catch a label’s interest, come up with a recording contract, he wanted to get his little ones and his mother into a new house, take care of them the way a real man ought to. And he was staying out of trouble, finally living up to his responsibilities.”

His voice hoarsened as he spoke, hinting that he grieved for the lost human potential in the most rough-edged member of Hangman’s Bayou. Ross felt a moment’s guilt about his earlier suspicions that the agent might be some sort of shyster looking to rip off Laney and her friends.

“That’s commendable,” Justine said. “But do you become this personally involved with all your clients?”

Cordero shook his head. “Of course not. For one thing, a lot of them would bleed you dry with their needs, their addictions. But I’m a man who’s been blessed in this business, and from time to time, my wife and I help where we can, without calling attention to it. So we’d both appreciate if we could keep this between us, Sheriff.”

“Because if you have to crow about it, where’s the altruism?” Ross nodded his agreement, liking Cordero even more.

“Exactly.” Cordero paused as he noticed Justine scrutinizing his left hand. Holding it up, he displayed a heavy gold band.

“We’ve been married fifteen years now. My Serafina remains as beautiful as the day she was crowned Miss Venezuela, and better yet, she can bait a hook as well any man I know and keep me in line. Which, she can tell you, is no small feat.”

“Fifteen years.” Justine smiled indulgently at Cordero’s pride, then glanced down, leading Ross to notice she’d recently removed her own ring.

“You’re a very lucky man,” she added.

“That I surely am.” Cordero’s phone interrupted, ringing, and he reached inside his pocket, his face coloring. “Can’t believe I forgot to mute this at a funeral. Please excuse me.”

Frowning at the screen, he added, “I’m sorry. Would you mind if I took this? Problem client, I’m afraid.”

Justine nodded. “I’ll wait.”

Cordero took a few steps from them and spoke quietly, his back to them.

Checking his watch, Ross said, “I’d better get going. I have a shift starting in an hour, and I need to run home and change first. Was there something you needed from me, other than to ask if I would talk to Laney?”

“Just to catch some air, Ross, that’s all.” Justine’s espressorich eyes sent an answering warmth through him. “There’s nothing more to read into it.”

But there was, he knew, as he said good-bye and left her. Because with the two of them, there was always the subtext of a story still unwinding toward its end.

Or perhaps to a beginning, if they were brave enough to claim it. Smiling at the thought, Ross started up his Mustang, and he turned the music high, listening to the raucous strains of Hangman’s Bayou, somehow sounding more alive than they ever had onstage.

Chapter Twenty

The greatest blunders, like the thickest ropes, are often compounded of a multitude of strands. Take the rope apart, separate it into the small threads that compose it, and you can break them one by one. You think, “That is all there was!” But twist them all together and you have something tremendous.

—Victor Hugo, Les Misérables

Sunday, October 25

“There you go, Noah. That’s right,” Justine said as her son sleeked the brush along the curve of Moonshadow’s swollen belly.

Without warning, anxiety sank in its teeth, and a sharpclawed awareness of time’s passage followed. Forget the first “golden” forty-eight hours of an investigation. Already, it had been four days since Laney Thibodeaux’s assault and Roger’s murder. Days with little progress, despite the fact that Justine and many of her deputies had been working nearly nonstop on the investigation. Together, they’d generated a mountain of reports after tracking down and interviewing area sex offenders, working their way through everyone from bartenders to the owner and some regulars at both Hammett’s and the Tin Roof, and questioning anyone even tangentially involved with any of Roger Savoy’s open cases.

At the moment, however, they were in a holding pattern, waiting for state assistance in tracking down a few disturbing but nonspecific messages sent anonymously to Laney’s e-mail account. Waiting for DNA tests to come back on the semen found on Laney’s clothing and the cheek swab Dr. Kenneth Fleming had been quick enough to volunteer. Waiting for anything that might break the logjam of ideas.

Stop it, Justine warned herself.

For this small stretch of Sunday afternoon, she was here, at home with her son. She thought of times, so many times in her childhood, when her father, his head in some investigation, had snapped at or ignored her. She vowed not to do that to her son, too, not to ever let him believe he ran a distant second to the job.

“That’s it.” She smiled at how carefully, how gently Noah worked. As if he truly cared about the old mare’s comfort. As if he’d been watching and listening to Justine.

Progress, with a disabled child, wasn’t the stuff one engraved on trophies or boasted of in Christmas letters. Instead, it was measured in the tiniest of increments, accomplishments Justine celebrated in the private sanctuary of her mind. Which only made them more sacred, she thought, like the charitable acts of men like Ross Bollinger and Simon Cordero.

“Careful there,” she warned Noah as she pulled him slightly backward. “She’s a little ticklish. See that?”

Shivering, the old mare stamped a hoof and snorted. Laughing at the sound, Noah reached inside his pocket for his digital recorder, then held it to the horse’s nose with an eager grunt.

“You found your recorder,” Justine said. “And here I thought you’d lost it.”

When the horse didn’t snort again, Noah started pointing at her emphatically, then making impatient noises at his mother, the expression on his face imploring.

“Sorry, guy,” Justine said. “Moonshadow doesn’t speak, so she can’t understand what you want.”

Reddening with frustration and clenching his fist, Noah appeared to be gearing up to throw a first-class tantrum. So much for today’s progress. Justine quickly glanced around in hopes of a distraction.

“Look, Noah. There’s Grandpa coming home, see?” Justine pointed out the black pickup rolling up the driveway. As she took note of stacked boxes in the bed, her stomach dropped, weighed down by a strange mixture of relief and dread.

Relief at the rare smile blooming on her son’s face. And dread, because her dad was moving in for what he called “the duration,” since he’d convinced himself she couldn’t get along without his help.

When he’d first brought up the subject last week, Justine had already been attempting to convince Gwen Bollinger to live in, at least until the bastard who’d snatched Noah was caught. With both a place of her own and a new romance commanding much of her attention, Gwen had resisted the idea. Still, Justine had wondered if she might find someone else.

Someone other than her father, who had merely shook his head at her arguments and said, If you’d lower those blasted barricades of yours for one minute, you’d think about what’s best for Noah. Make a rational decision for once in your damned life.

Though stung, Justine had done just that. And finally, she’d admitted that her dad was the best person to keep her son safe and provide the consistency he needed to regain the ground he’d lost. So for Noah’s sake, she’d said yes, even if she still wasn’t so sure the arrangement wouldn’t end in bloodshed. Laughing when she said so, he’d gone home to pack up some of his belongings and deal with a few chores before closing up his house.

After turning Moonshadow loose back in the pasture, Justine went with Noah to meet her father as he put down the truck’s tailgate.

“Come to lend an old man a hand?” he asked, rubbing at the small of his back.

“Old man-a-hand,” Noah echoed happily as he eyed the boxes.

“In a minute.” Justine gave her father a quick but fierce hug and kissed the sandpaper roughness of his cheek. “But first, I want to thank you. And tell you I’m sorry. I wasn’t as grateful as I should’ve been when you offered to put your life on hold to help—”

“You’re getting it wrong, as usual. I might’ve…might’ve not always been the dad you needed, but you are my life, Chili Pepper, you and…” He ruffled Noah’s hair, a playful movement that belied the suspicious glint of moisture in his brown eyes. “You and this young man here.”

Touched, Justine smiled at him. At least until she heard the whimpering from inside the cab of her dad’s truck.

“Tell me you didn’t.” Mouth tightening, she tried to peer inside the tinted window.

Her father stayed put, blocking her view and grinning up a storm. “Then I’d be lyin’, wouldn’t I? And we can’t have that.”

His eyes alight, Noah whipped out his digital recorder and pointed it in the direction of the yipping.

“Take it back, Dad,” Justine pleaded. How could he simply move in and take over, steamrolling her wishes as if she were a child? “I told you, I don’t have time for a puppy. And you know I can’t afford it.”

And we both know the other reasons. Reasons you wouldn’t admit under threat of torture.

“Relax, Justine. It’ll be just fine. I’ll take care of everything. Shots and vet bills, even the housebreaking. Smart little critter like this, it shouldn’t take—”

“That’s not the point.” Tell me you haven’t forgotten Jelly and the way you…the way you blamed me after Eddie…?

She looked away quickly, because sheriffs couldn’t cry. Nor could any daughter of the great Ed Truitt. “Take it back, Dad. Right now. Please.”

Noah, having slipped around the truck unnoticed, opened the passenger-side door and was greeted by a joyful yapping—a sound that had him squealing with delight.

By the time Justine jogged over, the genie had well and truly escaped the bottle. A little red-and-white hound pup rolled on the dry grass with Noah and licked at his face, with its tail wagging hard enough that Justine half expected its little rear to levitate off the ground. The puppy turned its chestnut head to look at Justine, its ears flopping and its big eyes the clear golden brown of amber.

Oh, great. She’d had a hard enough time not getting too attached to Lou’s big ranch dogs. But this…How did a person steel her heart against a damned hush puppy?

“Nice touch,” Noah shouted as the little hound scrabbled on his chest to lick his face again. “Nice touch.”

Wheeling around, Justine glared at her father. “Yeah, Dad, a real nice touch. Thanks a whole hell of a lot.”

“You’re sure welcome, sugar,” he said, as if he’d been immunized against sarcasm. “Now, if you could help me with these boxes, we can call it even.”

Refreshed after sleeping off the effects of his shift, Ross stopped by Trudy’s house, an older one-story near the elementary school. Though Trudy and her husband had a far more modest budget than did Ross, the redbrick house with the green shutters was as homey as it was clean. Spatula in hand, Trudy let him inside, inviting him into a kitchen that smelled of brown sugar and cinnamon-sweet baking.

“Nice to see you,” she said. “You’re looking good, Ross. Rested, for a change.”

“So where’re Mutt and the monsters?” Ross looked around, preparing for an ambush by Trudy’s daughters, who, at two and four, loved nothing more than surprising the man they called “Uncle” with flying tackles. Their dog, a big, good-natured hairball that drove Trudy crazy with his shedding and his slobber, was usually not far behind.

With his own house all too quiet, Ross drank in the chaos and commotion.

Trudy’s cheeks rounded, and she raised an eyebrow. “You mean the little monsters or the big one in my guest room?”

“Um, both.” Ross swiped an oatmeal-raisin cookie from the platter. Too hot, it burned his fingers, so he switched it back and forth between his hands and blew on it.

When the cookie collapsed into crumbs, Trudy laughed. “Serves you right, you big mooch. Now grab a paper towel and—”

“Got it.” Ross picked up the mess, though he was pretty sure his germ-phobic cousin would clean up after his cleanup later.

Nevertheless, Trudy rewarded his efforts with a properly cooled cookie when he finished. “To answer your question, Ray took the girls over to the park with Cousin Itt. They all needed a good romp. Almost as much as I needed them to have one.”

“This is great.” Ross closed his eyes, savoring his first blissful bite. “Is Laney up? I need to talk to her about the sheriff.”

“The sheriff? I don’t understand.”

“She asked me to tell Laney she’s going to have to clear up a few questions. Justine—Sheriff Wofford said you were giving her a little static.”

“I don’t know why she’d say that.” Trudy nibbled the cookie she’d selected. “I let her in last night when she came, and I talked Laney into seeing her.”

“Last night?” But that would mean Justine had stopped over after he’d seen her at the funeral. After he’d said he wanted to be present when she questioned Laney.

Ross swore, his anger building.

“What?” Trudy flushed, bright splashes appearing at her cheeks. “What’s wrong? Shouldn’t I have—”

“It’s nothing you did, Trudy. It’s…The sheriff asked me about it yesterday after Caleb’s service. And I thought for certain she was going to hold off till I could bring Laney to her. So what did Laney tell her?” he asked. “Did you stay?”

Trudy’s color deepened. “I, uh, I stood outside the bedroom. The sheriff left the door open a crack.”

“Good move. What did Laney say about the phone call?”

“The one Deputy Savoy made to her cell, right? I could tell that question was important. The sheriff kept circling around back to it, telling Laney it was a two-minute call, that they must have discussed something. But Laney never changed her story, just told her she couldn’t remember anything about it.”

Trudy’s gaze shifted just as Ross heard footsteps behind him. Turning, he saw Laney had joined them in the kitchen.

“After everything I’ve gone through,” she said, “that woman thinks I’m lying. I just know it. I told her and told her I never saw Roger Savoy again after that night with the noose, but she just sat there staring at me like she knows everything I’m thinking.

“I can’t stand her,” Laney added, her voice clipped and angry as she stared at Ross. Still in her pajamas, though it was well past noon now, and with her hair a wild tangle, she demanded, “Do you think she’s out to hang this on me?”

Ross frowned at the unfortunate word choice. “I don’t think Justine’s out to get you. I think she’s out to get the truth.”

“Justine?” Laney sneered the name. “So now you’re on a first-name basis with her? I knew there was something weird about the way you two looked at each other in her office.”

Trudy slid a surprised look his way before arching one dark brow. “You know, Ross, Gwen and I thought you were up to something, always sneaking off so quietly. Last summer, right?”

Ignoring the question, Ross shrugged. “I’ve known her for a while. And I’ve talked to her enough to know she wants to find whoever hurt you and killed the others. Isn’t that what you want, Laney? Isn’t that what all of us want?”

“But she suspects me. She’s made that clear,” Laney insisted, a lone tear skimming the curve of her cheek. “Whose side are you on in all this? You’re supposed to be on my side, no matter what the others—”

“You know where I stand.” Ross gentled his voice to reassure her. “Where we all stand—behind you. So if there’s anything you need to tell us…or even if you’d be more comfortable talking to a lawyer—”

“Why should I need a lawyer? After someone drugged me, raped me?”

Trudy looked desperately from her cousin to her youngest sister. “Laney. Laney, sweetie, we’re all just looking out for your best interests. Ross isn’t saying you’ve done something. He only wants to be sure we’ve covered all the bases to protect you.”

“It’s bad enough that woman thinks I could possibly have anything to do with that horrible, rude deputy getting himself murdered.” Voice cracking under the strain of her emotions, Laney locked a wounded gaze on Ross’s face. “But to imagine for a moment you, of all the people in the world, believe it…Do you think I wanted Jake and my friends dead, too, or to be trapped here watching Trudy play Becky Home-Ecky with her babies?”

Trudy’s face flared red. “There’s no reason to get nasty.”

Ross knew Laney was going through a lot, but he needed to shut down the histrionics. “I know you’re hurt, and I can take it, but give your sister a break, will you? Trudy’s bending over backward to—”

“She doesn’t need to. I can go back home. If you’re worried, maybe you could add an extra lock or—”

“Forget it.” Ross cared too much about Laney’s safety to be anything but blunt. “You can stay with me or Dara, or one of my sisters, but you are absolutely, positively not going anywhere alone. And if you set one foot out of the house on your own, I swear to you, I’ll have Justine put you in protective custody. In a cell.”

Laney glared at him. “Excuse me, Dr. Trust Fund, I don’t have to stand here listening to your edicts.” Turning to Trudy, she said, “I’ll be in my room,” and stalked back toward the guest room. A moment later, a door slammed.

When he could trust himself to speak again, Ross asked, “Want me to call Gwen to come and get her? I don’t think Laney’s as mad at her as she is at all the rest of us…or at least, not yet.”

Gwen had such a knack for staying out of family squabbles, her siblings and her cousins had nicknamed her “Switzerland.” Which Ross thought beat the heck out of either Dr. Trust Fund or Becky Home-Ecky.

Trudy paused to consider, then shook her head, her brown eyes shining. “You know what? Laney can cry and curse and call me all the names she wants to. But my baby sister’s not pushing me away. Not this time.”

“You’re a better man than I,” Ross said.

When Trudy smiled, he hugged her and kissed the top of her head. “You change your mind or need any help, call me.”

“Where’re you off to in such a hurry?”

Ross frowned, thinking of the way Justine had played him. “I’m off to find the sheriff. And I don’t think that’s going to be a pleasant conversation either.”

A plate of Trudy’s cookies in hand, Ross headed for the Mustang, whose top he’d lowered in honor of the mild temperature and brilliant sunshine.

Still agitated, he turned on the stereo, where he’d left Laney’s CD, and headed for the outskirts of town. As Trudy’s neighborhood fell away behind him, the song switched from a raucous dance tune to Laney singing the first plaintive notes of “Last Stop Till Eternity.”

Within a few bars, the hairs behind Ross’s neck rose as he fell under the song’s influence. And awareness settled like something cold and leaden in his stomach.

For the loneliness of this song, the yearning he heard in it, resonated with the knowledge of how those backing her had died. In the subtlety of Hart’s percussion, he heard the rhythm of men’s footsteps crunching through leaf litter. In the haunted swell of Jake’s accordion, Ross felt the rope as it was thrown over a thick limb. In the scrape of Caleb’s bow, Ross knew the rough-edged young man’s final gasp for breath.

Yet it was Laney’s sweet voice and the lyrics that formed the backbone of the serpent in the garden: the knowledge of these men’s, of every man’s, mortality.

Shadow soothes our heartache, Cools the sear of hot flesh. Spills like blood into wineglasses Raised to toast eternity…

Near the outskirts of town, Ross pulled the Mustang beneath an overarching span of tree limbs, his throat gone tight with prescient comprehension that this recording, this song, transcended zydeco or any musical boundaries, that it was going to be the one that catapulted Laney out of Preston County and into the public eye. If the woman he still thought of as his baby cousin could recover the will to chase it, success surely awaited. Success of the sort that led not only to recording contracts, but sold-out concert tours and Grammy nominations.

But there would be a price paid, in the form of the tragedy that made her song so poignant. The triple heartbreak could form the basis of a legend, could make people listen long enough to hear the storyteller in the singer, but only if his cousin somehow found the strength to bear it.

Within moments, doubt crept in, with Ross reminding himself he was only a casual listener, and a seriously biased one at that. But Laney had assured him Simon Cordero thought the songs showed promise, that other people in the industry had said exactly the same thing.

He slipped the car back into gear, allowing the final notes to spin out onto the dusty road behind him, swirling small eddies of dried leaves into the air.

By the time he pulled into Justine’s driveway, Ross had switched off the music in an attempt to focus his thoughts. Near the house, he caught sight of Ed Truitt, in his broad-brimmed hat, a stack of boxes he was carrying tucked awkwardly beneath his chin. On a nearby patch of grass, Noah was dragging a stick back and forth while a young hound puppy leaped and snapped and yipped in its attempts to capture the prize.

No sign of Justine, but her ragged-out Expedition was parked beside her father’s pickup, so she couldn’t have gone too far. Taking a deep breath, Ross shut off the Mustang and climbed out of the car.

Though he’d come to confront Justine, Ross rushed to her father when his stack of boxes teetered. “How about a hand there?” he asked.

“Thanks, Doc.” Ed Truitt shifted his load to allow Ross access. “Think I bit off a little more than I could chew this time.”

As Ross took the boxes, Justine’s father glanced past the boy and puppy to the open back door. “Think I bit off a little more than I could chew in that case, too, while I was at it. My daughter’s in a real snit and a half. Can’t figure that girl sometimes.”

Ross followed him toward the doorway, his burden more bulky than weighty. “The dog?” he guessed. “You brought a puppy here without Justine’s blessing?”

“Well, hell,” Truitt defended himself. “Since when does a man have to ask the whole damned world’s permission to spoil his only grandson? Just look at the two of them. Any fool could see they’re meant to be together. Kind of takes me back to the days when…”

In the man’s expression, something clouded, and Ross heard him whisper, “It’s Jelly, damn it. What the hell have I done?” For all the sense that made.

Yet in spite of Ross’s own worry for his cousin and anger at Justine, he couldn’t help grinning at the sight of the radiant smile on Noah’s face. After witnessing the boy’s terror the afternoon he had disappeared, Ross thought he understood Truitt’s need to make his grandson happy. Still, bringing a puppy into a house was a huge decision. Not the kind to make without consulting the child’s mother.

Not for the first time, Ross sensed something off in Justine’s relationship with her dad. Something as uncomfortably out of balance as the stack of boxes Truitt had held beneath his chin.

As they reached the door, Justine appeared, her dark hair pulled up loosely and her jeans drawing his eye to curves that sent a jolt of raw, sexual awareness slicing through his body. It pissed him off that as angry as he was with her behavior, he could never completely focus on her as the sheriff, not when the woman in her called to him so loudly.

So he wanted her; what of it? He had always wanted Justine Wofford. That was no reason to allow her effect on his hormones to disarm him, nor his awareness of the vulnerability she hid so well to do the same.

Reminding himself that he’d come here about his cousin, he tore his attention from Justine’s body to the shift in her expression, the change from irritation to wariness in her eyes.

Or maybe it was guilt over the stunt she’d pulled with Laney.

“Something I can help you with, Dr. Bollinger?” she asked him. “Everything all right with Laney?”

Though she kept her tone professional, Ross recognized the warning in her expression, the plea to keep the status quo. But he didn’t want the status quo. He wanted answers, right now.

“No, it isn’t,” he said. “Which is why I came to see you.”

At the harshness of his tone, Justine’s father jerked his head around with the same appraising look Ross had often seen from the man’s daughter. And Ross didn’t doubt for a moment that Truitt would come to her defense if things got heated, yet the old man didn’t look too worried. Probably remembering the way he’d helped with Noah, not to mention Ross’s quickness to volunteer to carry boxes.

“Where would you like these?” Ross asked him.

“You can set ’em on top of the washer here. I’ll haul ’em upstairs when I’m ready.”

Justine gave Ross a wait-a-minute gesture, perhaps to remind him that he was on her turf now.

“Is that it, Dad?” she asked her father, her voice confirming that there had been tension between them. “Any more still in the pickup?”

“Nope. That’s the last of ’em. Thanks for your help.” He rubbed the small of his back. “You need me to look after Noah? I could stand a break now anyway.”

“Thanks.” She looked over at Noah with the puppy. “He really does like it, doesn’t he?”

“Not ‘it.’ She’s a girl pup,” her dad told her. “Pure beagle, out of a litter from one of my friend’s little rabbit runners. Tell you the truth, Chili Pepper, when he offered a couple of weeks back, I had a mind to keep her for myself. The house’s been feelin’ awful big and empty, and I thought it might be nice to have a dog again after all these years. Thought I might call her Penny and sit with her in my lap some evenings while I watched the TV. Probably a bad idea, making her a surprise. You want, I’ll take her back to my friend, tell him to find her a new home.”

“Penny, huh? Cute name. That’s a slick move, old man. What was it you said before about me being manipulative?” Justine’s voice held less heat than affection. “Guess I learned at the feet of a master.”

Her father offered no defense but looked at her expectantly.

“You and I both know that puppy’s going nowhere,” Justine said, “so you can save the sap. But let’s get one thing straight: I’m not cleaning any Penny puddles.”

“Deal.” Looking relieved, her father went outside to join Noah, with Justine shaking her head at his retreat, a wry smile pulling at one corner of her mouth.

“There’s a plate of fresh cookies in the car,” Ross called after him. “I’d be grateful if you’d take them off my hands before I finish ’em myself.”

“Have Noah wash his hands first,” Justine said before ushering Ross into the kitchen. “Nice of you to share.”

“Just spreading the wealth.”

“Something to drink?” Justine asked as she pulled out glasses from the cabinet. “I’ve got water, soda, iced tea. Beer, too, if you want one.”

“This call isn’t social. I came to talk to you.”

When he ignored her gesture toward one of the chairs around the kitchen table, Justine forgot about the drinks and turned to study him, leaning against the counter. “What’s the problem, Ross? Why’d you come to the house?”

When he’d wanted to meet with her before, when they were lovers, he’d always called her cell phone. But he had never turned up uninvited; it was an unspoken rule between them.

A rule of the old order, the one that hadn’t worked. “I came to ask you what the hell was up with you going straight to Laney last night when you knew I’d be at work. I told you I was going to bring her in to talk today. I said I would call.”

Justine shrugged. “Your cousin’s neighborhood was on my way home, so I thought I’d swing by, in case Laney might be ready to chat.”

“Don’t play games with me. You and I both know Trudy’s house wasn’t on your way home. And you didn’t just happen to ‘swing by.’ You went to see Laney because you knew I wouldn’t be there, giving her advice if she needed—”

The glass clacked against the countertop as Justine set it down. “You’ve been advocating for an attorney from the start. What do you know about Laney, Ross, that you don’t want me to find out?”

“I don’t know anything”—except that Laney’s pregnant—“except that you’re suspicious. You’ve been suspicious of her from the start, and on what evidence? That Roger Savoy, a man who hated you, for God’s sake, had a feeling Laney might’ve hung that noose for attention?”

“A noose that looked a hell of a lot like the one that ended up around his neck. And the one found on my son.”

“What the hell are you implying?”

“I’m not implying anything, just stating a fact you ought to know. Along with the fact that I’ll do anything I have to in order to find out who shot a man I was responsible for keeping safe.”

“Not my cousin. When Savoy was shot, Laney was probably already in the hands of whoever drugged and raped her.”

There was an ominous pause before Justine responded, a pause that made Ross wonder if she doubted some part of the story.

“My God, Justine. You saw her that night, half-dead from the cold and out of her mind. And left in the same spot where her friends were murdered. Why aren’t you looking for the man who did it? Surely he’s the most obvious suspect.”

“Of course he is,” she said, “and after what was done to Laney, I’d certainly expect your cousin would be eager to tell me whatever she recalls to help catch this son of a bitch. Except she keeps saying she remembers nothing. Nothing at all from the moment she turned the key to lock her mother’s house. Until then she’s quite clear, but afterward, she claims it’s all blank.”

Ross had his own misgivings regarding Laney’s story. His own doubts she was being truthful when she’d claimed Jake as the father of the child she was carrying. Was he making a mistake in not sharing that part? Withholding information that might lead to a murderer and rapist?

He thought of what Debbie Brown had said about Justine: I know that personality. I’ve lived with it myself. People like that never question their goals, never think twice about doing whatever they have to do to achieve them. And they don’t give a damn who they have to barrel over, if you get in their way.

Could he risk allowing Justine to steamroll his cousin?

“After the LeJeune girl smacked me with that golf club,” Justine said, “I couldn’t remember…still can’t recall the moment it happened. And for a while I couldn’t remember much about what happened in the hour or so prior, except for ragged bits and pieces that grew clearer as the days passed.”

“Remember me warning you about that when you were brought in? Happens a lot in head injuries.”

“But as far as anyone can tell, Laney wasn’t hit in the head. And from what the toxicologist tells me, the mechanism’s different when someone’s been given a drug like scopolamine. It suppresses the formation of new memory but doesn’t erase what went on before the drug was taken. At least, not nearly so neatly.”

Ross could poke holes in her reasoning, could explain that physical and emotional trauma and even hypothermia could affect memory, but instead he waited to hear Justine out.

“Laney couldn’t—or wouldn’t—even venture a guess about whom she meant to stay with, or what she might have had to eat or drink with someone. Because she got that drug inside her somehow. More than likely in the company of somebody she thought she could trust.”

“So you think she’s hiding something.”

“Don’t you? Doesn’t it sound as if she might be protecting someone, or maybe herself?”

“Why would I tell you what I’m thinking,” he said sharply, “when you’ve already proven you’re willing to use anything I say against Laney? When you’re willing to exploit our relationship to—”

“I wasn’t exploiting our relationship. I’m trying to solve—”

“The hell you weren’t using it—and me. The only reason you took the chance on speaking to me in a public place was so you could pick my brain.”

“You’re wrong. Dead wrong about that.” Justine looked hurt by the suggestion. “I was doing my job, that’s all. Following leads as they came up. Like the call I got as I was leaving the funeral about a Chevy Cobalt, a bright red one, found abandoned in the woods.”

She pointed to the tree line some distance beyond the kitchen window, with its cheerful frame of tied-back gingham curtains. “A few miles away, near that little graveyard, you know the one on Old Church Road?”

Ross immediately understood her implication: that Laney, or at least her car, had been in close proximity to the very spot where Roger Savoy had been found shot. Though he couldn’t picture her walking a few miles to kill someone. No more than he could imagine Laney driving to the ruins of a long-abandoned church after leaving her house. Unless she had been going to meet someone.

“What was in her car?” he asked. “Any prints? A weapon?”

“We’re still processing evidence, but you know I can’t—”

“—discuss the details. So you’ve said.” As frustrating as he found Justine’s vagueness, Ross knew one thing for certain: It had been his responsibility to be there for Laney last night, to do all in his power to talk her into accepting his help. She was so young and traumatized, a trained professional like Justine would read her like a road sign. “You should have called me. You absolutely should have.”

Justine’s expression clouded, her dark eyes the perfect backdrop for the lightning strike of her displeasure. “Do you honestly think I can sit around waiting for witnesses to feel up to sharing information about an ongoing murder investigation, or to have their cousins present during questioning? I don’t have that luxury. Not with a murderer running around Preston County, and especially not with the DA breathing down my neck and half my men—half the county, for all I know—thinking I’m the one who had real motive to kill Roger.”

“So you’re after the truth and that’s all?”

Justine moved closer to him, close enough to reach tentatively for his hand and squeeze it. Her voice softened, reminding him of bedroom whispers they’d shared in the past. “What else would I be after? Surely you don’t think, after everything we’ve been through, I’d be looking to throw someone you care for under the bus for no good reason? Come on, Ross. You know me better…Don’t you?”

“I know what you show me.” He jerked his hand away. “The parts you choose to share.”

Pain bloomed in her expression the way a drop of blood expands when it hits water. And Ross thought of how she could have gotten herself killed that night, the night she’d taken him with her to find Laney. Thought of how Justine had run into danger without the slightest hesitation.

She had shown him herself that night, just as she had shown him yesterday, when she’d spoken of the errors that had led to the charges of corruption.

“I’m sorry,” he told her. “I don’t mean to hurt you. It’s just…It’s this situation. Can’t you at least tell me, is my cousin a suspect? Can’t you at least tell me as a friend? Because you said to me…Don’t you remember how you told me that at the very least I’d always have a friend in your department?”

He remembered what else had passed between them that day, the lovemaking that had seemed to open the door to a chance of true intimacy between them. Since then, he’d felt the promise of it, had glimpsed it in her eyes and heard it in their conversation.

He saw it now as well, as she looked into his eyes.

“Go ahead and hire that lawyer,” she said. “The best one you can find.”

Chapter Twenty-one

The Hanged Man is one of the most mysterious cards in the tarot deck. It is simple, but complex. It attracts, but also disturbs. It contradicts itself in countless ways. The Hanged Man is unsettling because it symbolizes the action of paradox in our lives. A paradox is something that appears contradictory, and yet is true. The Hanged Man presents to us certain truths, but they are hidden in their opposites. The main lesson of the Hanged Man is that we “control” by letting go—we “win” by surrendering.

—Joan Bunning, from Learning the Tarot: A Tarot Book for Beginners

Long as her legs were, Justine had to jog to keep up with Ross’s swift strides when he left the house. Though he said a terse good-bye to her father and Noah, Ross didn’t stop for conversation but made his way straight toward the bright red Mustang.

“Wait up,” she called after him, not caring about the way her dad was staring or what he gleaned from the conversation. All that mattered to her was the possibility—a long shot, maybe, but a chance to make things right—she felt slipping through her fingers. “Don’t leave angry, Ross. Please. I want…I need to talk to you.”

Beside the car, he paused to dig the keys out of his pocket. Flicking a glance her way, he growled, “If I hadn’t come here, when were you going to warn me? After you’d handcuffed Laney and read her her rights? She’s my family, Justine.”

“She’s an adult.” And maybe an accessory to murder.

“And I still have a responsibility to look out for her.”

Hearing the back door, Justine realized her father had taken Noah inside to give them privacy. And she thought of how her old man had reacted when he’d learned a member of his family was under the cloud of suspicion..

If you committed a crime, Chili Pepper, that’s one fall you’re taking on your own, he’d told her not long after he’d learned through a friend that the Texas Rangers were looking into her finances. Those Rangers don’t go huntin’ fire where there’s no smoke.

More bothered than she should be that Ross made no such exceptions, Justine lashed out. “What century are you living in, anyway? Because in this one, the law trumps your macho head-of-the-family bullshit.”

“Not in my family,” he told her.

“What, do you think money gives you some kind of special dispensation? Or is it having a…a past relationship with me?” Before you threw it out the window. Threw me out, she thought, remembering the way he’d made her feel so ashamed, so hollow for protecting herself, and him, too, as best she could manage.

His strong mouth drew tight. “Don’t pull that on me, Justine. I’m there for Laney because I know what it’s like to live with the consequences of not being there for someone I loved. Because I know what it’s like to live with that kind of regret.”

“You’re talking about Anne?” Justine had never wanted details. That had been another of the rules between them: that neither one would dampen their encounters with any reference to the spouses they had lost. Or much of anything of consequence.

But she understood the rules had changed, and in this round of the game, the issues of their real lives could no longer be ignored. Because they were no longer pretending that what they had was casual…

If they had anything at all, considering the issues that stood between them.

Ross nodded. “She was a cop, too. An HPD detective.”

“Did she…did she die in the line?”

“Yeah.” Another tight nod, his voice hoarsening as he spoke. “A traffic accident, but still…She’d just left me for a call. She was on a lunch break, out of service. But she chose to take it. Because we were arguing.”

“I’m so sorry.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers. “I wanted kids. She didn’t. I’d known it up front, known she’d had a bad childhood. But for some reason, I thought I’d talk her out of it. Damned stupid.”

“Ross…” She’d never imagined he was carrying such a burden.

“I always wondered what would’ve happened if I’d just accepted things as they were. Or if I’d at least been there to stop the bleeding. It’s what I do—for other people…”

Justine shook her head. “You can tear yourself apart wondering stuff like that. I have, imagining what would’ve happened if I’d forced the issue with Lou, made him have that physical he kept putting off. Or if I’d found him a few minutes sooner. You can’t undo it, Ross. Can’t take back a single second. There’s no reverse gear on the time line. The only possibility is moving forward.”

A breeze ruffled his hair and lifted strands gilded by the autumn sunlight, a bright note in contrast to the haunted depths of his gray eyes. “Maybe you can’t change the wondering, but it can damned well change you. It should…should make you less afraid of telling the people in your life you love them. And less afraid of showing love in every way you can.”

Justine felt a burning in her throat, the regret for all the things she’d left unspoken. With Ross and before. “I didn’t love my husband. When I married him, I mean.”

Ross said nothing, only listened, looking even sadder.

“He knew,” she confessed. “Knew how hard it was for me to trust, after Noah’s father…But Lou said he felt enough for both…for both of us, enough to tide me over till I could feel it with him.”

“And did you, after you were married?”

“God, yes. It took a while for me to be certain he didn’t just want a young trophy wife on his arm and in his bed. To be certain I was after more than some stability for my son. But Lou was good to Noah, and he was patient with me. Not perfect, but patient enough to win me over. It was tough, Ross. I’m not…I’m not a woman who loves easily.”

“That’s because you’re a woman who loves hard,” he ventured, reaching to touch her face, to smooth back an errant lock of hair and tuck it behind her ear. “So hard you’re afraid.”

“I was afraid,” she said. “Afraid to tell him. And I let Lou die, not knowing. I never said the words.”

Ross reached for her, and just like that, she let go, leaning against his chest, letting the tears come. Stroking her back, he assured her, “He knew, Justine. Of course he knew it.”

“How can you be sure? How can I?”

“Because you’re not half as good at hiding your emotions as you think. Not from anyone who loves you.”

Surprised, she pulled away to look at his face, trying to gauge what he’d just told her. Struggling to deserve it.

But her hesitation went on too long, the silence turning awkward. Unsure what to do, she swallowed hard, then pulled her phone from her pocket and hit a number on the speed dial.

“Hey, Dad,” she said when her father answered. “Would you mind holding down the fort for a couple hours?”

“Everything all right?” her father asked her.

“You tell me, Dad. You’ve been watching from the window.”

“At first, your doctor friend looked plenty mad, but then I got to thinkin’, how dangerous could a fellow who makes house calls and dispenses cookies really be?”

Her gaze traveled from Ross’s broad chest and strong shoulders to a face that could have doubled for a Nordic god’s. A face that watched hers with singular intensity.

She stroked the contour of his cheek and smiled at him, lifting her brows in a suggestion. “Dangerous enough, Dad.”

“Then you’d better be careful, Chili Pepper,” he said. “We’ll see you in a bit.”

In her father’s voice, she heard an unfamiliar warmth. Approval, Justine realized. Her father approved of Ross, or of her decision to pursue him. There’s a first.

“Thanks.” She broke off the connection.

“What was that about?” Ross asked, but in his eyes she read a supposition…and his enthusiasm for it.

Justine reached into the car, her hand caressing the Mustang’s white interior. “How ’bout we go for a ride, Ross?”

“Justine…” Reluctance filtered through the lust that roughened his voice. “I have a call to make. You’re the one who told me to hire a good lawyer.”

She put a finger to his lips. “It’s Sunday. That can wait. But this can’t.”

He pulled her finger into his mouth, his eyes closing and his tongue stroking the tip in a way that had her melting like a candle.

Standing on tiptoe, she whispered into his ear, “Let’s drive somewhere private, and you can meet me in the backseat.”

Releasing her finger, he stared her down. “You want to come with me, you’re riding in the front seat, Justine. To my house and not some pissant motel. And this time, we’re both walking in through the front door.”

Chapter Twenty-two

Though the dungeon, the scourge, and the executioner be absent, a guilty mind can apply the goad and scorch with blows.

—Lucretius

Ross knew what Justine was up to. He was pretty sure he understood it better than Justine did herself.

Not wanting to frighten her off, he’d kept his admission low-key, but he had let her know he loved her. And she’d gotten the message. He’d watched her eyes flare with alarm and heard her choke on an attempt at speech.

All too quickly, she’d slipped into the comfort zone of sexuality. Because somewhere along the line, she’d learned to trust a man’s reaction to a smoldering look, a subtle caress, and anything-but-subtle curves. And somewhere along the line—probably when Noah’s father abandoned her—she’d learned to distrust everything else. Or maybe some earlier wound had caused her to devalue herself young, so much so that she would hand over her heart to an irresponsible loser in the first place.

If Ross were a better person, he’d stop things right now. Point out to her that she was worth a hell of a lot more than the backseat tumble she’d just offered.

But the truth was, words would never convince her. And the greater truth was, that look, that touch, that body of hers had him so wild with the need to have her that it was all he could do to grind out the condition that she go with him to his house.

If she turned and walked away from him, Ross knew his resolve would crumble—had the uncomfortable suspicion, in fact, that he’d throw himself at her feet and beg her to join him in the backseat, on the Mustang’s hood—any damned place he could have her. Even though he suspected he’d regret it later.

But instead of leaving, Justine looked at him uncertainly. “You’re sure, Ross? Sure you want to be seen with me? This situation with Savoy’s death…Whether I end up blamed or Laney does, your family isn’t going to understand.”

He walked around and opened her door for her, then smiled and gestured toward the front seat. “I’d be honored to be seen with you. Anytime and anywhere.”

Blinking hard, she stared down at the ground between them, staying silent for a span Ross counted out in his own heartbeats.

At ten, she nodded. “Okay, then. Let’s do this.”

As the miles rushed past, she said nothing, her body’s stiffness in stark contrast to the waving tendrils of hair teased loose by the wind.

“You all right?” he asked as they passed the edge of town.

“I’m fine,” she told him, reaching back to free the rest of her hair. The dark chocolate spill of it looked alive, flapping like a shiny banner in the sunshine. “Really. Just a little—”

“Nervous?” He flashed a smile her way. “It’s not as if we’ve never—”

“I’ve never been inside your house, you know that? In all the time we were together, I never even tried to get to know you.”

“You were still grieving,” he said, and waved at an older man raking leaves out of his front yard. Now retired, Mr. Yardley had taught him biology in high school, while the woman beside Ross had put a whole new spin on the subject within the past few months. But he found it was another subject altogether—that of her psychology—that kept him fascinated with her. That made him want to spend a lifetime unraveling her secrets.

“That’s true,” she allowed. “And in a lot of ways, I’m still grieving. But as selfish as it is on my part, I don’t want to lose you again. I don’t want to be alone.”

She was alone, he realized as he turned onto his street in the historic district. Despite her child and her father, Justine had always struck him that way. From what she’d said about her marriage to Lou Wofford, she had been alone then, too, in her fear.

“You don’t have to be,” he promised, catching sight of the blue Craftsman bungalow he’d taken more than two years to restore on days off. Since last week’s cold snap, the leaves of the sweet gum tree in the front yard had turned a vibrant yellow, with two smaller ornamentals blazing orange right beside it.

He laid his hand atop hers, feeling the strength beneath her smooth flesh. But underneath that strength, he suspected she was terrified of this step, of saying the things she’d said and taking their affair out of the shadows.

“I didn’t mean what I said as an ultimatum, back at your place,” he said. “What I’m telling you is, we can hold off if you want to. Because you’re worth the wait.”

His heart bumping uncomfortably, he added, “So it’s your call, Justine. Do I pull into the driveway or take you right back home?”

All Justine had started out wanting was the distraction of an hour—or maybe two or three. A chance to be with Ross before circumstances forced her to bring his cousin in for a much harsher round of questions. Questions bound to center on the presence of Laney’s fingerprints—and her fingerprints alone—on the nine-millimeter semiautomatic pistol found beneath her front seat. The same handgun that was now being tested to match to the bullets removed from Roger Savoy’s chest.

Depending on how things shook out, it was altogether possible Ross was going to regret ever having anything to do with Justine. And altogether probable he’d forget he’d ever implied such an impossibility as love.

The right thing, the honest thing to do, she knew, was to tell him to turn the car around, head straight back to the ranch. Because accepting anything more suggested she was ready to commit to a relationship she knew was doomed to failure. And she wasn’t certain she was strong enough to make it through another loss.

“Pull into the drive,” she said, her voice a husky rasp she barely recognized. A stranger’s voice, one she acknowledged as her own misguided impulse. But she didn’t want to think of it, couldn’t bear to think at all now, when she wanted so desperately just to feel, to live inside the physical for whatever brief span circumstance allowed them.

They made it inside the house—barely, Ross fumbling with his keys while Justine kissed him long and hard at the front door, as she had promised. She heard a car pass by but didn’t look up, couldn’t do much more than wrap herself around him in an urgent invitation.

Finally, Ross rammed the key home and pushed open the front door behind her. Once inside, an autumn’s worth of clothing fluttered to the floor: colorful leaves that marked a trail across the hardwood, past the brick fireplace, and into a bedroom with walls painted in a softer blue than the house’s exterior.

The king-size bed was a mahogany four-poster, and she had a vague impression of quilted stars as Ross ripped the coverlet aside and laid her down on smooth sheets. On all fours above her, he leaned in to devour her mouth, his tongue plunging, stroking, and teasing her until white-hot excitement ignited like a new sun at her core.

Reaching up, she rubbed her palms across his hard chest, scraping his sensitive male nipples with her thumbnails. Then she reached much lower, eliciting a hiss near her ear.

“Not yet,” he whispered. “You touch me like that right now, and this is going to be one short date.”

Encircling his length, she smiled wickedly up at him. “I wouldn’t call it anything like short.”

He grabbed her wrists and, in one swift motion, pinned her arms above her head. “I kind of wish you’d been in uniform. Could’ve used those pretty silver handcuffs right about now.”

“You don’t need them,” she whispered as he kissed a path toward her breasts. “I’ll be good. I promise.”

“Come to think of it, I might prefer bad,” he said, the last coherent words either of them managed as he occupied his lips, his mouth, his clever tongue with other pursuits.

Writhing beneath him, Justine lost herself in sensation. Let the heat and light of him drive down the darkness as he finally took her, rocking toward a supernova that burned away awareness of the world beyond blue walls.

Chapter Twenty-three

A gallows was erected at Erwin, and a dummy was procured and dressed as much after the fashion of the Governor as possible, and the ceremony of hanging him was gone through with, the Sheriff of the county officiating. After the drop fell, the effigy was saturated with kerosene and a match applied…There were many women and children present, and the affair passed off in a very orderly way. It was explained by the leaders that this was the only way that the people had of expressing their indignation adequately.

—From “Gov. Turney Hanged in Effigy,” the New York Times, May 13, 1895

Hanging an enemy in effigy is a coward’s substitute. Children playing at a man’s work with their straw-stuffed dolls.

Pitiful and weak…a substitute for truly dealing with one’s problems. As I’ve dealt with my own, by one means or another. Get in my way, you’re swinging. Get too close to my secret, and you’re a dead man, too.

Only with women have I lacked the strength to follow through on the needs, desires, and—I’ll admit—the savage fantasies that haunt me. A failing of mine, I confess. A weakness I must remedy…

(I see your swinging feet, dear…one gold sandal already fallen, the other dangling by a toe.)

Not out of shattered fascination, or the need to amend my earlier misstep. And certainly not out of any “precipitating incident,” as the fucking shrinks would call it.

When next I act, it will be for no lesser purpose than my own preservation.

Because I cannot let them hang this on me.

I cannot hang (like you)…

Justine was in Ross’s tiled bathroom tying back her hair—quite damp after Ross had joined her in the shower—when the cell phone buzzed in her pocket. Fishing it out, she looked over at Ross, who was buttoning the fly of his jeans, his shirtless torso making her wish she could roll back time an hour.

“Forces of evil,” she explained, seeing the four-letter word work in the caller ID window.

Ross gave her the same look of regret she’d seen in half a dozen motel rooms when one of them was called away. “Already?”

“Wofford here,” she said into the phone. “What’s up, Larry?”

She’d left Crane in charge today, riding herd over the other deputies on duty. Though she’d finally taken an afternoon off, the investigation couldn’t.

“I cashed in a favor, got ballistics rolling.” Because of its small size, Preston County lacked its own firearms examination unit and contracted with another jurisdiction.

“Glad to hear it,” she said, still amazed by how well “Ichabod” had stepped up as her second in command. She had to admit she’d had serious doubts about his leadership abilities, had understood the rumblings of disbelief among the other men when she’d made Crane her “provisional” chief deputy, but having a man she could trust to support her now was crucial. To her immense relief, Larry had almost immediately begun asserting himself with a confidence that surprised everyone—including Justine.

“So do we have the murder weapon?” she asked.

Halfway through buttoning his shirt, Ross froze, tension stiffening his shoulders, as if he guessed where Justine’s thoughts were heading.

“We’ve got it, all right. And that’s not all. We’ve traced the registration to a person of interest right here in our home court.”

Justine’s nails dug into her own palm. “Let’s not milk the moment. Tell me.”

“Dr. Kenneth Fleming purchased it four months back. So what do you say? We got enough here to run a search warrant out to Judge Moore on a Sunday?”

Though neither the DNA nor the handwriting comparison had come back from the samples Fleming had offered, Justine didn’t hesitate a moment. “Hell, yes, and pick up the subject—as long as you take backup with you. I’ll be down there as soon as I can—or at his house if the timing works out.”

“You need his address?”

“I’ve got it.” Fleming was still rattling around in the expensive new house he’d bought for his family in Lakeview Village Estates. Still imagining they’d come back? Or was he hoping to snare a beautiful young woman to take the place of his ex-wife?

And could Laney Thibodeaux somehow be in on the plan? Or had Fleming, a man with access to all manner of drugs and a track record for misusing them, taken steps to chemically ensure her compliance?

As she slid her feet into her shoes, Justine felt a chill rip through her. This could be it. The solution. Though she hadn’t believed him capable at first, part of being a good cop was following the facts rather than one’s own biases and preconceptions.

Even if they led in a direction she didn’t want to go, she thought as Ross finished tying her hair back for her, his lips finding their way to that sensitive spot behind her ear. As much as she hated to, she stepped away from the distraction…and the pinch of guilt she felt, knowing that she would need to question Laney as well as Kenneth Fleming.

“If you get him to the office before I make it in,” she told Larry, “stick him in an interview room and wait for me to get there.”

“You’ve got it, boss,” Larry said, so easily it made her wish he’d been her second in command from day one.

Once she ended the call, Ross’s gaze founds hers in the mirror. “Need me to run you home now?” he asked. “Sounds like something’s up.”

“Sounds like.”

“This have to do with Laney’s attack?”

This question, at least, she could answer. “I don’t know for sure yet. Probably won’t for a good while now.”

His expression darkened. “Who is it, Justine? And don’t you dare say you can’t tell me.”

Shaking her head, she frowned. “No way. Not now.”

“If it’s someone I might know—”

“What’re you gonna do, Ross? Rush over there and start with the chest pounding? Or tip him off by calling him and—”

Ross took her by the shoulders, turning her to face him with firm hands, searching her with storm-gray eyes. “It’s Kenneth, isn’t it?”

Justine wondered how he always read her. “I didn’t say that,” she said, the protest as useless as it was belated.

“You think Kenneth Fleming’s a murderer? A rapist? You told me before I shouldn’t—”

“Go punch him out? Of course I’d say that. Do you really think I’d want you risking your life, in case he is a killer? Besides, this guy ends up black-and-blue, some defense attorney’s going to be all over that, white on rice.”

“Still, we’re talking Kenneth?” Ross’s skepticism recalled Kenneth’s failure to cover up his drug use.

She nodded. “Maybe he’s a better criminal clean and sober—if he did this. Which is still very, very far from a proven fact at this point.”

Flicking him a look, she added, “Are you getting this, Ross? For the time being, you need to stand back out of the way and let me do my job.”

He stared back at her, what appeared to be cold fury vying with his common sense. “So I’m just supposed to go to work this evening, pretend there’s nothing happening?”

Justine thought of how much easier it would make her life if he did—how much more likely she’d be to get answers if she could convince Laney to speak without benefit of counsel. And she thought about how furious Ross had been when he’d shown up at her place believing she’d done an end run last night around his “interference.”

She could almost hear her father saying, It’s not your job to keep protective relatives of suspects happy. It’s your job to keep the citizens of Preston County safe.

But Ross wasn’t just some family member, raising walls and hurling down denial. He was the man she trusted with her son’s life, the man she’d learned to trust, however much she’d fought it, with her heart.

But he was a man with his own job as well: to make certain Texas justice didn’t run roughshod over a young relative who might turn out to be an innocent, fingerprints or no.

Justine recalled what Dr. Wagner, the Dallas toxicologist, had said about foreign criminals using scopolamine to get their victims to willingly give up their money, bodies—even their own children. Was it really such a stretch to imagine using it to coerce someone into handling a murder weapon after it had been wiped clean? Or, for that matter, even killing someone the truly guilty party wanted dead?

Zombies, she thought with a shudder, picturing Hart Tyson, Jake Willets, and Caleb LeJeune marching into the moss-strung woods to place the nooses over their own necks. Picturing Laney, cold and bruised as she wandered that same hollow, her memory reduced to mist.

“No, you shouldn’t go to work,” Justine told Ross. “You should get on the phone to that lawyer friend of yours and get him out here right away. Because the fact that Laney knows this man could be a game changer. Especially since we’ve got her prints on the gun that killed the same deputy who was questioning her—”

“You…you have her prints and didn’t tell me?” His anger bounced off the mirror and the tiles, reverberated through air still slightly misted from the shower they had shared. “You knew this before, about Laney’s prints on the murder weapon?”

Justine’s throat tightened. She wanted to take him into her arms, tell him all of this could be worked out. Wanted to touch him again, to console herself as much as him. But she knew he wouldn’t stand for it. And she owed him better than some fairy tale to try to placate him.

She owed him the kind of truth that seldom had a happy ending.

“First of all,” she explained, “I had no evidence at the time that it was the murder weapon.” Only a gun found in Laney’s abandoned car. “Second, I told you to get her a good lawyer…which, believe me, is a lot more than I do for the average suspect.”

“So here you are, in my house, calling her a suspect.”

Justine had known—she’d been absolutely certain—things would turn out this way between them. She’d tried to warn Ross earlier. She’d tried to warn herself. Still, his anger cut deep.

But it was imperative that he didn’t see her bleeding, didn’t see the wound she had no idea how to stanch. “You know what, Ross? I don’t have time for this now. I’ve got a job, and I make no apologies for doing it. If you can’t handle that, then maybe we should chalk up all the rest”—she tossed off a gesture toward the bedroom—“to something no better than what we had before. And absolutely no more workable.”

He went stiff, his expression turning even harder. “If that’s the way you want it, Justine.”

“I need to get home and then to work. So are you going to take me? Or do I have to call somebody for a ride?”

Ross dragged his keys out of his pocket and slapped them on the counter.

“Take the car,” he told her brusquely.

She felt the rejection like a blow but did her best not to show it. “You don’t want to drive me?”

Shaking his head, he said, “Not now. I’ve got that call to make, and then…I’ll have Gwen give me a lift later.”

“Fine, Ross,” Justine told him. She resisted the impulse, moments later, to squeal the Mustang’s wheels as she pulled out.

Chapter Twenty-four

He is the gentlest of men, this alleged sternest of judges. He is courtly of manner and kind of voice and face, the man who has passed the death sentence upon more criminals than has any other judge in the land. The features that have in them the horror of the Medusa to desperadoes are benevolent to all other human-kind.

—Reporter Ada Patterson, writing of Judge Isaac (“the Hanging Judge”) Parker, from “An Interview with the Distinguished Jurist by a St. Louis Correspondent,” as published in the Fort Smith Elevator, September 18, 1896

Often called upon to go from crime scenes or the jail to civic group or budget meetings, Justine kept a change of clothes and makeup kit in her office. Rather than lose another forty minutes by returning home, she decided to use them, along with Lou’s old .45 and shoulder holster, which she stored at work instead of around Noah.

In the parking lot, she slipped into a space a good distance from her marked spot. With luck, no one would see her emerging from Ross Bollinger’s all-too-recognizable red convertible.

But she tempted fate by taking the extra time to raise the car’s top so she could properly lock up. As she finished, she heard a low whistle behind her.

“Gorgeous…”

Face heating, Justine whipped around—only to see Calvin Whittaker, in faded jeans and a worn Hammett’s on the Lake shirt, a stack of manila file folders in his big hands.

He flushed and stammered, “I-I meant the car, Sheriff. A real classic.”

Justine stared at him for an uncomfortable two seconds while she fought back the impulse to laugh. “Of course. But what brings you in on your day off? Larry call you?”

Calvin shook his head. “It was Phil Savoy. Do you know him? Roger’s oldest. We hung around in school together.”

Justine nodded, remembering the college baseball player from the family photos on Savoy’s desk. That picture could be a few years old, but still…“You’re only his age?” Damn, her rookie deputy was such a kid.

Calvin went from pink to scarlet. “Phil stopped by the dock. I was messing with my boat there. Old outboard motor with more carburetor trouble than the thing’s worth.”

Reminding herself not to needle him any more about his youth, she willed the man-child to get to the point.

“You remember how Mrs. Savoy said Roger didn’t have any of his notes at the house?” Calvin asked.

Justine nodded, instantly alert. The files found at Roger’s desk had seemed so perfunctory, in contrast to the meticulous reports she’d seen on so many past cases, she’d known there had to be more somewhere. Along with the small appointment calendar she’d so often seen the man pull from his pocket and consult.

“Phil said his mom was just upset and hadn’t wanted to do anything to help…” Calvin averted his eyes. “Well, let’s just say she’s holding on to some real hard feelings toward you.”

“I sort of got that from our last conversation.”

“Phil said he got to thinking his dad’s notes might help us find the killer. And he wasn’t about to let his father’s murder go unsolved out of spite.”

“That’s excellent. You find Roger’s calendar in that lot?”

Calvin shook his head. “Haven’t really looked yet. Thought I ought to bring it straight here.”

Justine nodded. “Let’s get the files inside, and you can go ahead and clock in if you’re able to stay.”

“Sure, but…” He gave his motor-oil-grimed attire a doubtful look. “But maybe I should run home and put on a uniform.”

“Sure, sounds like a good idea,” Justine said, wondering if he kept an Eagle Scout uniform in the same closet. “Meanwhile, let me take those…and come back to help me with them as quick as you can.”

Calvin grinned and nodded, looking so eager, she added, “Drive carefully, Deputy. I need you back here in one piece.”

Justine walked inside with the folders, what felt like an imminent breakthrough quickening her steps. It was time to scratch some entries from the Book of Questions and finally complete her spiral of Known Facts.

By the time he finished talking his attorney friend into making the drive from Houston, Ross felt a little better.

“Don’t you worry,” Dan Henderson assured him, oozing the folksy charm that had somehow made him popular among Houston’s most affluent defendants. “This sounds like nothing so much as a confused, frustrated department playing Blame the Victim. I promise you, I’ll help these bush leaguers see the error of their ways.”

“You’d better not let Sheriff Wofford hear you call her a bush leaguer,” Ross warned. “Not unless you want your balls in traction.”

“Is that even possible?” Dan asked.

Ross thought of the way Justine had blasted him before she’d walked out. “Trust the doctor on this one, all right? And I’ll trust you with my cousin.”

He had barely put down the receiver of his bedside phone when it rang again. Picking up, he said, “Even you can’t have gotten lost already.”

“Hey, Ross. You busy?” He immediately recognized his sister Gwen’s voice and heard the strain in it.

“What’s wrong?” Since Laney’s attack, he’d noticed Gwen had been tenser, quieter than he’d seen her in a long time. But then, all of them were on edge, shaken by the trouble swirling around their family.

“Yes, something’s…God, I don’t know,” she said. “It’s…I had a fight with Erik. A big fight.”

“I thought you two were getting on great.”

“I thought so, too, but he’s been really stressed lately about his business.”

“What does he do, exactly?”

When Gwen explained it, Ross came to his feet. “That didn’t set off any alarms?” he asked. “That he’s been wining and dining county commissioners and trying to make inroads with the same woman you work for?”

“Believe me, I asked him about it point-blank when I found out. But he swore he had no idea I worked for the sheriff when he met me, and he’s never once asked me to do anything or discuss anything that made me uncomfortable…except…”

“Except what?” Ross asked.

“There was this one time I found him with my phone. He said the battery on his was dead, but—forget it. I’m sure that was nothing.”

Ross made a noncommittal sound, weighing his dislike for the coincidence of Whatley’s business with Justine against his sister’s normally unerring judgment. She knew people, understood them on a level that would make her an outstanding clinical psychologist, should she ever decide to finish the graduate work she had abandoned so abruptly.

But Gwen knew herself as well, which she proved by adding, “But I suppose there’s some chance I might’ve been influenced by the fact that this handsome, successful, and intelligent single man suddenly appeared in Dogwood—an advent so rare I checked the east for a star rising.”

Even as wound up as he was over Justine, Ross laughed. “So what happened? Did he take out his job stress on you?”

“Worse yet. He asked for money. A lot of money. A short-term loan, he swears, just enough to help him through a temporary cash crunch.”

“Ouch,” Ross said through gritted teeth. Because Gwen’s money—or the family’s money, since she hadn’t yet come into her trust fund’s principal—was not an angle he’d considered. Particularly not from a man who dressed, talked, and played the part of big success so well. “So what did you tell Erik?”

“That our mama always taught us never to mix love and money. But I would gladly introduce him to a banker who might help him.”

Proud of his sister, Ross said, “Good for you, but how did it go over?”

“About as well as you’d imagine,” she said. “He was…he was furious. Called me a rich, entitled princess and several other choice words before he stormed out. And I…I was so stunned. I never expected…I really thought I knew him. Loved him, even.”

“I’m so sorry, Gwen. I know it hurts.” He’d run into his share of women who’d turned out to be a lot more interested in his inheritance than he was. “Do you need me to come over?”

“No, no. I think I’d rather be alone for right now. I’m contemplating hot-fudge therapy as we speak.”

“A little self-indulgence is definitely in order, but about Erik…You don’t think he’s mad enough to give you trouble, do you? Do you need me to go talk to him? Warn him off or anything?” Like stomp a hole in him for hurting you?

“Stop it, Ross. Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Feeling the need to solve every problem for all the poor, hapless females in your life. Did Anne put up with that from you?”

“Let’s not bring Anne into this.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “It was wrong of me to mention that. And I do appreciate your willingness to help. We all do, Ross. It’s just—”

“For the record, she didn’t like it either,” Ross admitted, though he knew he’d gotten even more protective since Anne’s death. “But I can’t help wanting to keep the women I love safe.”

“That’s fine, but this woman’s perfectly capable of handling it on her own.”

“With a little help from Häagen-Dazs,” Ross added. “But before you get started, maybe you could give me a lift to see Laney. There’s some legal stuff I have to talk with her about.”

“What’s the matter? That relic you’re driving finally give up on you?”

Ross, who had been nursing along that engine since high school, was offended. “No. Never, but I loaned it to…a friend.”

“Must be some friend, if you’re letting her use your car.”

“How do you know it’s a woman?” he asked.

Gwen’s scoffing little laugh annoyed him. “Tell me I’m wrong, brother. But don’t worry. I’ll come get you. Just be prepared to spill the juicy details.”

“Thanks,” Ross told her, already wondering whether there was any longer a relationship with Justine to discuss.

With Larry off to find the judge to sign his warrant, Justine opened the cabinet door in her locked office and stripped off her shirt. As she reached for her white blouse, she froze, catching her reflection in the mirror she’d hung behind the cabinet door. Noticing the red marks, the whisker burn of Ross’s stubble, on the tops of her breasts. An observation that brought with it a pang sharp with regret and longing.

If she removed the bra, she’d find more, she was certain. Nips and scrapes of passion that reminded her of those she’d once brought home from the cheap motel rooms where she’d met him. Reminded her that even the most consensual of affairs sometimes left marks.

“Not to mention the ones that don’t show.” She thought of the way they had argued over Laney Thibodeaux, whose body had borne marks of its own.

Marks Justine had assumed had come from some unknown stalker. But what if they had not? Justine shivered, imagining those dark bruises and lacerations coming from rough sex with a lover the young woman had welcomed.

But lovers didn’t drug each other, or leave those they cared for in the cold rain, miles from anywhere. Justine frowned, thinking about crime statistics, numbers that bore out the sad truth that all too often love proved fatal, especially to women.

As Justine considered, she finished dressing, slid into low-heeled pumps, and applied lipstick, then put on a pair of gold hoop earrings she found in the pocket of her jacket. With her professional battle armor in place, she cleaned the broken pencils from her desk, resharpened four fresh ones, and sat to go through the files Marilyn Savoy had hoped to keep from her.

“I guess you should’ve burned ’em quicker,” Justine said as she flipped through the folders to check out their neatly labeled tabs.

The top file was simply labeled, Hangman’s Bayou. Separating it from the stack, Justine found a paper-clipped sheaf of what turned out to be obituaries from Houston, Austin, Plano, Wichita Falls—with names she recognized as those of other hanging victims from around the state. Most had been printed from what was probably Roger’s home computer, which showed dates prior to Caleb LeJeune’s death. So Roger had been digging into the local deaths, investigating them as homicides even as he’d attempted to misdirect her into believing they’d been suicides.

“Wanted to be the big dog, didn’t you?” Justine murmured, realizing Roger must have intended to bring her down, by supposedly bucking her “flawed judgment” to solve murders in a case that could easily draw a lot of press.

But something had gone badly wrong with Roger Savoy’s plan. “Did you get too close to someone? Close enough to make a killer nervous?” she asked as she flipped through page after page in the thick file. She lingered on what looked like a to-do list, a note with the name Kenneth Fleming underlined, followed by: Wife/kids—Whereabouts? Seen since leaving town? Check w/former coworkers/neighbors. Missing persons reports?

A chill crawled over Justine’s skin as she thought about the decomposing female body found near Lake Whitney. Justine dug deeper, hoping Roger had had better luck at finding answers. Seeing nothing helpful, she made herself a note reminding her to make locating Kenneth’s family a priority.

But Justine didn’t stop her exploration there. Instead, she flipped through more pages, trying to get a general overview, when the black-lettered tab of another thick file caught her eye. WOFFORD, it read, the letters angry slashes. Oh, boy…did that mean Roger had been investigating her, too?

It did, she soon discovered, blood freezing in her veins as a stack of photos slid free. A series of grainy pictures of herself walking into a motel room, her dark glasses and lowered head all but screaming of the seediness of her assignation.

As if Ross Bollinger had been someone to be ashamed of. What the hell had she been thinking, treating the man—treating herself—like that? She was a grown, single woman meeting an attractive, eligible man, but her own lack of self-confidence had made something sleazy of what should have been the best thing that had happened to her in this past year.

Never again, she vowed as she shuffled through the photos, understanding for the first time why Ross had hated the way she’d forced him into sneaking around.

And despising Roger Savoy for finding a way to embarrass and piss her off from beyond the grave.

“You son of a bitch,” she muttered as more photos slid out of the packet. Photos of her and Ross inside a motel room. Pictures of the two of them—

“Shit, Roger,” she hissed through clenched teeth, wishing he were alive so she could kill him. “Why on earth…?”

Had he thought to blackmail her? To threaten to expose her—quite literally—if she would not step down from office? If so, why hadn’t he tried?

Maybe he ran out of time, or more likely guessed I’d turn it around on him. Because Roger knew her well enough to figure she’d tough things out to spite him. And if he made good on his threat, exposed illegally acquired photos of perfectly legal adult activity, his career would much more surely be taken down the tubes than hers. He might even be the one who ended up behind bars.

Still, Justine prayed that neither Phil Savoy nor his mother had looked at these photos. She wondered for an instant about Calvin, and then dismissed the notion. If he’d come across the revealing pictures, Justine felt certain he would have spontaneously combusted from embarrassment while handing them over to her.

Unable to bear the sight of them, Justine sat at her desk and jammed the disturbing photos into the back of a drawer. Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, she then fanned out the file’s remaining notes. On one sheet he’d listed a number of prominent business owners in town, all of whom had contributed significantly to Justine’s campaign.

Several of whom had been willing to go to extraordinary lengths to ensure that the blunt, hardheaded Roger Savoy would never be Preston County’s sheriff. Justine’s stomach tightened, for this was far more dangerous territory than the photos. And if Roger had come up with what the Texas Rangers hadn’t, some connection between this small group and the ridiculously named Sunrise Happy Doodle International that had placed forty thousand dollars in Lou’s and her joint account, her career was toast.

And probably her freedom, for no judge or jury would believe she hadn’t known. And lately, both seemed inclined to make examples of public officials caught up in corruption.

Digging through the papers, Justine searched frantically for the proof, flipping through notes on past sales calls from Hal Smithfield of CorrecTex and Erik Whatley of Southern Humane Detention. Her heart pounding, her mind strayed to the paper shredder she had in the corner. The shredder that could still save her if she dared to use it.

If she’d become the kind of person who would.

Her outside line rang, jolting her out of temptation. Sucking in a deep breath, Justine closed her eyes against a whirl of nausea.

“Wofford here,” she answered, forcing herself to feign a calm she didn’t feel.

“It was Roger,” her father said without warning. “Roger Savoy put that noose around your boy’s neck.”

“What?” she asked, thinking of the similarity of the noose found on Roger. “Where’s Noah? Did he tell you? Is he all right?”

“He’s right here and fine as frog’s hair. Conked out on the rug, curled up with the puppy, both of ’em worn out from playing. The thing is, I picked up his little digital recorder, where it fell out of his pocket. Started playin’ with the darned thing, and you would not believe what that boy’s got recorded.”

Justine felt the prickling of the flesh behind her neck. “You mean…he recorded the person who snatched him from the school?”

“Damn straight, he did. Whoever said that boy doesn’t have the smarts to go into police work? Takes after his ol’ grandpa, I’d say.”

Justine rolled her eyes before getting back on track. “So you think it was Roger’s voice on the recording?”

“When I recognized it, I-I wanted to…” Her father’s voice was filled with white-hot fury. “I went from wanting to kill that bastard to remembering someone else had beat me to it…You didn’t know about this, Justine? You didn’t figure out that it was Roger?”

Justine sucked in a breath, understanding that her father was wondering if he’d just discovered the motive for Savoy’s murder. Wondering if she had killed him after all.

If she said yes, would her dad defend her? Or would he finally turn his back on her forever?

“Of course I didn’t know,” she snapped. “And you shouldn’t have to ask that. You should know I’d never—”

“It makes sense about the school, though,” said her father, as impervious as ever to her feelings. “That must be why Noah’s teacher thought you were the one picking him up that afternoon. I’m bettin’ she caught sight of a sheriff’s department truck in line and figured it for yours.”

“You’re probably right about that.”

“Hold still, you little freak, or I swear to God I’ll—”

Justine jumped to hear the harshness of the recorded voice as her father played it in the phone for her to hear. Fury pounded at her temples as she imagined that tone, those words used on Noah, and her vision filled with the crime scene snapshot of fingerprint bruises on his skinny arm, of the thin crescent cuts made by a man’s nails.

That son of a bitch. “Is that it, Dad?” she made herself ask. “Is there any more to it?”

“No more,” said her father. “But I was right, don’t you think? That was Savoy’s voice, wasn’t it?”

“You know what?” Justine hesitated for a moment, her stomach swirling as her gaze drifted over Roger’s notes on her desk, the aggressive, choppy strokes of his handwriting. The words Sunrise Happy Doodle. Angry as she was with Roger, she still wasn’t certain, though the accent sounded local. “Maybe not. Play it again for me.”

When her father did, she forced herself out of mom mode and into cop to really listen. “I’m pretty sure you’re wrong about the voice.” Understandable, since her father barely knew Roger. “That’s not Savoy. Definitely not…But it—I could swear the voice is familiar. Someone I’ve heard before. Someone…I should know this, damn it.”

But no matter how hard she struggled for it, the name still wouldn’t come. “Play it one more time. Please.”

Once he had done so, she said, “I can’t…I’m not quite sure. He sounds so angry; maybe that’s it.” Had she heard that voice, that tone, when she’d been laid out on the ground near the LeJeune place? But that was impossible, wasn’t it? Caleb’s oldest had told her siblings she’d hit Justine with the golf club.

Or had that just been wishful thinking, something Tara LeJeune had bragged to her sister and brother about because she’d fantasized that she had been the one to do it? Justine had seen adults do the same thing, giving false confessions, and the behavior was even more likely in a child.

“Why don’t you go back to whatever you were doing?” her father suggested. “Chances are, when you quit trying so hard, it’ll pop right into your head. Or you can listen to the recording later in person, soon as you get the chance.”

“I think that’s a good idea,” Justine told him. “Meanwhile, whatever you do, don’t let Noah out of your sight.”

Chapter Twenty-five

Helpless and overwrought, she would fasten the rope-noose about the beam above her bride-couch and tie it to her white throat…

—Hilda Doolittle, from “Hippolytus”

“Whose car is that?” Gwen asked as she parked her blue BMW in front of Trudy’s house. A large, slate-colored Jaguar claimed the spot where Trudy’s husband normally parked his pickup. Bearing a vanity plate that read MRMUZK, the expensive import gleamed, pristine but for a KEEP AUSTIN WEIRD bumper sticker.

“Gotta be Simon Cordero’s,” Ross told her. “The band’s agent. I guess Laney decided to talk to him after all.”

Gwen groaned, shaking her head. “I’m not really up for Trudy, the kids, and a lot of chitchat with some stranger.”

“Sure.” Ross smiled. “Grill me mercilessly about my love life, and then go home to spend Sunday with your sundae.”

Judging from her expression, his attempt at humor bombed. “It’s all right, Gwen,” he added quickly. “I really do appreciate the lift.”

Nodding, she kept her gaze fixed forward, the trembling of her lower lip letting Ross know she was more upset than she’d let on.

“I’ll call you later, kiddo,” he said. “Do an emergency run if you need it, for maraschino cherries and some chopped nuts.”

Her smile sad, she raised an eyebrow. “Only if they’re Erik’s.”

Ross chuckled, thinking that Whatley, who had clearly used his sister, had it coming. He kissed her cheek and went to the door, where Trudy let him in.

Casting her eyes toward the kitchen, Trudy stage-whispered, “They’re talking M-O-N-E-Y—some kind of recording offer on the table.” Worry pulled her scant brows together; Trudy had earlier confided her hope that, costly as it had proven, Laney’s fame fixation had been laid to rest with her band.

“Uncle Ross,” shrilled a high voice, followed by another.

Grinning, Ross hoisted up his cousin’s daughters, one in each arm. “Ahoy, monsters,” he said, to their squeals of laughter.

“Not so loud, girls,” warned Trudy, “and Ross, you really shouldn’t—”

She piped down when he swung a warning look in her direction, but her attention was soon commandeered by Cousin Itt, who raced out leaping and barking and eager to begin the games.

“Can you please quiet it down?” called Laney from the kitchen doorway. “We’re trying to talk business.”

Behind her stood the bald, suit-clad Simon Cordero, looking far more amused than she did. “It’s fine,” he said with a flourish of a manicured hand. “There’s no music as sweet as the sounds of children’s laughter. If Serafina and I had ever been so blessed—”

Laney’s troubled glance flicked from her agent to catch Ross’s eye, and in that look, Ross knew she was thinking of the baby she still carried, at least for the time being.

He sobered in an instant. “Sorry we disturbed you.”

Dissolving into tears, Laney turned away.

“Laney?” Ross said. “Laney, honey, I’m sorry if I—”

“Let me get the mutt and heathens outside,” Trudy suggested as she wrested the girls away from Ross. “C’mon, girls, let’s take Cousin Itt to the park.” She grabbed a house key, leash, and tennis ball from the drawer of a nearby entry table before herding her family out the door.

“It’s all right, Laney,” Cordero rubbed her upper arm, looking at her with fatherly concern. “The deal’s not going to evaporate if you take a little time to think it over. But not too long. I hate saying this—I don’t want to come across as crass—but there’s a window of opportunity that’s opened. An amazing chance to break out ‘Last Stop’ high on the charts if we move quickly.”

“Last Stop Till Eternity,” thought Ross, his skin prickling with a memory of the song’s haunting lyrics.

Laney threw herself into her agent’s arms, holding on to him with the desperation of a drowning swimmer. “Thank you, Simon. Thank you so much. It’s everything we worked for. Everything we ever dreamed of. But how can I do this without Jake? How can I play without all of them behind me?”

He patted her hair, smoothing a stray curl off of her cheek. “We can work all that out later. Just think about it, little girl. And ask yourself whether they would’ve wanted you to go forward in their place or give up now. Whether they would have trusted me to look after you in this.”

Again, she looked toward Ross, then pulled herself away from Cordero. With an audible breath, she straightened, coming to her full height, a fraction over five feet.

“I don’t need looking after. I’m not a child anymore. I-I’m going to be a mother soon. So I have more to think of than Jake and Hart and Caleb. I have to think about what’s best for this baby, too—and I haven’t begun to wrap my head around the idea.”

“You…you’re pregnant?” Simon swiftly drew the curtains on his shock. “Congratulations, Laney, and of course, you’ll want to consider all the angles. Including your best means of providing for this child—”

“That’s not going to be an issue for her,” Ross put in. “Laney, you don’t need to let money decide this.”

Ignoring Cordero’s look of irritation, Ross continued, “You choose—and take your time doing it. You’ve been through way too much lately to make any snap decisions.”

Laney nodded. “I’m sorry, Simon, but I can barely think now. There’s just too much going on.”

Ross approached, thrusting a hand toward Cordero. “Thanks for driving all the way back here from Austin again to see Laney—and for everything you’ve done to help the band and her career. Right now, she needs her family, but we’ll be sure to call you as soon as she’s ready to talk more about this.”

There was the slightest hesitation before Cordero accepted the handshake. “Look after her well,” he said before nodding toward Laney. “Call me any time of day or night. You have all my numbers.”

As Justine continued digging through the contents of Roger’s files, a call came through on her cell phone.

“It’s Larry,” her new second in command said when Justine picked up. “I need you to meet me over at Kenneth Fleming’s house in a hurry.”

“Fleming’s house?” No way did the timing add up. “You couldn’t have gotten the search warrant signed that fast.”

“I was on the way out to Judge Moore’s when a call came through dispatch. Dr. Fleming’s holed up in his house—armed and threatening to shoot himself.”

Justine’s stomach dropped. “You’re on the scene?” And why hadn’t the dispatcher let her know, too? Hadn’t Rose heard her come in?

“Miller and I both are,” Larry explained. “We’re setting a perimeter, keeping our distance for the time being, and trying to open a line of communication. From what the neighbors told us, there was some kind of altercation. Dr. Fleming stumbled out of the house screaming at some kids playing soccer in the cul-de-sac. When they laughed and pointed at him—the guy was wearing an untied pink robe with nothing underneath it—he came outside crying and waving around a handgun.”

“Whoa, boy. That’s sure to rile the neighbors,” Justine said, thinking that Kenneth had clearly fallen off the wagon in a big way. Had it been the pressure of waiting for the DNA results to come back that cracked him? Or the knowledge that he’d be linked with Roger Savoy’s killing—or possibly the three other deaths surrounding Laney Thibodeaux?

Larry grunted. “One of the neighborhood mamas has already assured me she’ll look the other way if Fleming ‘happens’ to get in the way of our bullets.”

“See that he doesn’t.” With one last glance at her shredder, Justine reached for her keys and locked Roger’s files, along with the photos of her and Ross, in her desk. “At least, not before I get some answers out of him. This is really, really important, Larry. Talk to Paul, too, and make sure he understands.”

Miller was just the type to try to goad what he considered an undesirable into taking his own life. She could all too easily imagine the muscle-bound deputy taunting, You don’t have the balls to do it.

“You tell him his job’s on the line if he screws this up,” she emphasized, knowing this would be another test for Larry.

“I’ll get it through that thick head,” he promised.

“You said you’re trying to establish communication. Have you talked to Fleming at all?” Justine asked.

“If you could call it that. He shouted out his front door when he saw us talking to the neighbors. Screamed that they were liars and threatened to blow his head off. We asked him if he could hold off a little bit, if there was anybody he wanted to talk to, anybody we could get for him. He wanted his wife. Connie’s her name, I understand.”

“Good strategy, and she’s his ex-wife,” Justine corrected. “You find a number for her?”

“One of the neighbors had one. Paul’s trying her right now. But even if Mrs. Fleming’s willing, the lady’s in Fort Worth, so it would take hours—”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” Justine said, “and I’ll see if I can bring a friend of Fleming’s, or a coworker at least. Meanwhile, try to talk those neighbors back inside their houses. Convince ’em it’s a safety issue.”

It was, she thought, though mostly for Kenneth Fleming, who might become sufficiently upset by their presence to make good on his threats. But she couldn’t discount the fact that he owned at least two weapons.

Justine disconnected, then reached for the phone to call Ross. But her phone rang first, showing a number she immediately recognized as Erik Whatley’s. No way was she picking up that hot potato. After thanking them for their time, she’d already told both him and Hal Smithfield that the jail privatization plan had officially been nixed. Smithfield had reacted angrily, hurling furious accusations that she and the county commissioners had led him on, wasting his time. Whatley, on the other hand, had started pleading, sounding so weak and pitiful, she’d cringed to hear his desperation.

As soon as the call rolled back to Rose, who was undoubtedly sick of taking Whatley’s messages, Justine phoned Ross.

He must have caller ID, too, for he started out, “Listen, Justine, about the way I let you leave here—”

“Kenneth Fleming’s barricaded in his house and threatening to shoot himself. Is there someone local, someone close to him I should be calling? Or would you be willing to try to help us talk him out of it so we can get some answers?”

“Kenneth?” There was no mistaking the shock in Ross’s voice. “He’s…You’re serious?”

“As a heart attack.” Kicking herself for her choice of words, she asked, “So do you know anyone he’d trust?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Then what about you?” she asked, though she wished there were someone else. “Would you help out, for your cousin? Because if we get a confession, that’s going to be a whole lot simpler—especially if he can tell us he drugged Laney, that she had nothing to do with—”

“I’ll be there quick as I can. I’ll go straight to Fleming’s house.”

Justine hung up and headed for the door. She almost made it out before she stopped in her tracks, then deliberately strode back to her desk. Unlocking the drawer, she drew out a single photo, the only photo in which Ross’s face was clearly visible.

After securing the remaining evidence, she shredded that one picture. Because if she went down, she’d be damned if she would dirty his name, too.

Chapter Twenty-six

The Oct. 22 shooting death of Preston County Sheriff’s Department Deputy Roger Savoy, 53, may be linked to the recent rash of hangings involving area musicians, according to a member of the department who spoke on the condition of anonymity. According to the source, beleaguered Sheriff Justine Wofford was reluctant to reopen the investigations into the deaths, formerly ruled suicides, of Dogwood residents Hart Tyson, 33, Jacob Willets, 32, and Caleb LeJeune, 30, all members of a popular local zydeco band. The source also stated that a noose found on the person of Chief Deputy Savoy raises questions as to whether his death could have been prevented had the sheriff seriously considered several more experienced deputies’ assertions that the hangings should be investigated as homicides.

—From a front-page news item in the Dogwood Sentinel, Sunday Edition, October 25

If you ask me, the real issue dragging down this country is the death of pride. Individuals and companies putting their names behind shit work, sloppy craftsmanship.

Or worse yet, slapping two-bit nameplates on the superior work of others, trying to steal credit while muddying the genius of the true professional.

Those guilty of such crimes deserve to have the flesh flayed from their bodies before being forced to watch it fed to fire ants and black crows. But as pleasant a fantasy as that makes, it lacks a certain poetry…

The poetry of dying by the same sword the impostor has unsheathed.

“What’s up with Kenneth?” Laney demanded the moment Ross hung up.

Moments before the call, Ross had been telling her about the gun found inside her car, the gun that had allegedly killed Chief Deputy Savoy. Though she’d gone along with the idea of talking to Dan Henderson about the legal ramifications, she’d been far more eager to discuss the offer Simon Cordero had brought her, an offer she seemed to be quickly talking herself into.

Now he hurried to fill her in on Justine’s phone call about Fleming.

“He wants to kill himself?” Laney echoed, worry wiping all other emotion from her face. “You have to let me come, too. I’ll talk to him. I can. I know he’ll listen to me.”

“But what if he’s the one who hurt you?” Ross asked. Though Laney looked a lot better today, her hair clean and brushed, her jeans and light sweater unwrinkled, he knew she was still fragile, that she would be for a long time.

Scowling, she scratched at her nose, her gaze skating from his. “I don’t believe that for a minute. He was so kind to me, in spite of how sad he felt about his family leaving.”

Ross stared at her, thinking of the drug seekers who sometimes came into the ER, for Laney had that same air of evasiveness about her. But there was no time to grill her, not with Kenneth’s life at risk—along with the answers only he could offer.

Ross took the keys to Trudy’s minivan off the hook where she’d left them and jotted a quick note on the message board she kept on the refrigerator.

“Come on then,” he told Laney. He couldn’t leave her alone anyway, and seeing her interact with Kenneth might give him more information.

The problem was, Justine would be there as well, watching Laney’s every move with the keenest interest…and Justine’s liar’s radar was even better developed than his own.

Parking on the street behind another department SUV, Justine saw that Larry and Paul Miller had called in two deputies and placed them on crowd control at a safe distance from the Fleming house. As she had half expected, the neighbors not only hadn’t been dissuaded by the warning that they could be in danger, but they’d called friends, relatives, and other neighbors to clue them in on what amounted to big doings in the little town of Dogwood.

Already, there must be twenty or thirty, looking more excited than concerned, milling around behind the lines. A beak-nosed man with thinning gray hair was running around screaming for everyone to quit trampling his lawn, and Beau Castille, the editor of the Sentinel, stood with his pen poised and his beady eyes watching for some evidence that the sheriff he had once endorsed ought to be tarred, feathered, and run out of the county.

Some days, Justine’s job seriously sucked. A lot of days, just lately. Too bad for her detractors that she found the evershifting challenges and occasional victories so rewarding.

Ignoring the crowd, she joined Larry and Paul Miller across the street from Fleming’s front door, where the deputies were shielding themselves behind the bulk of a department SUV.

With Larry busy on the phone, she asked Miller, “He talking to Fleming?”

“We can’t get him to answer, but we know the guy’s still breathing.” He might be one of her loudest detractors, but on the scene, Paul Miller was all business. “No shots fired yet, for one thing, and I’ve seen the living room curtains twitch a few times.”

“Larry on the phone with the ex-wife, then?”

Miller shook his head. “Left a message for her. Called the local authorities and asked a deputy to run her address and try to track her down.”

Justine’s thoughts returned to that bluff near Lake Whitney, about an hour south of Fort Worth, and her stomach cinched tight. Had Fleming started on his own estranged wife before picking off men he saw as impediments to the affections of a new love interest?

And what about the children? Would their small, decomposing bodies be found next?

As Ross drove toward his coworker’s lakeside subdivision, Laney suddenly offered, “The gun was Kenneth’s—the gun in my car. He gave it to me a few weeks ago, after I showed him those notes I’d been getting. He said it was probably nothing, but just in case, I ought to have protection.”

If Fleming had been worried enough to loan his cousin a gun, why wouldn’t he have said something to Ross about it? Unless his concern had been more about building intimacy with a beautiful young singer than her safety.

Ross could wring Kenneth’s damned neck. Slowing for a stop sign, he asked, “Did you ever use it, Laney? Did Deputy Savoy ever—”

“No, Ross.” Shock and hurt rang through her denial. “I would never—I hate guns. They really scare me. I only took it to make Kenneth feel better. Took it as far as my trunk—and that’s where I left it.”

Which would explain how her fingerprints had gotten on the weapon. And if the man who’d abducted her had found it in her car’s trunk and then worn gloves to kill Savoy…Ross felt a weight lift, yet without evidence or another suspect in custody, Laney could easily end up charged with the crime. Especially if she kept acting so evasive.

“I’m glad to hear that,” he said, “but I need you to tell me one thing, Laney, and I need you to be honest. Who’s the father of your baby? And don’t try to sell me any story about Jake, because I know better. We both know, and this is your life, your future we’re trying to defend. You want to be a star? Want it to be the way your agent’s telling you it could be? You’re going to have to trust me. You’re going to have to own up to—”

“Kenneth could be killing himself right now, and you expect me to have this conversation?”

“I’ll ask you one more time. Is Fleming the father of—”

“You know what, Ross? You can just go to hell.”

Ross pulled over on the tree-lined shoulder and shifted into park, allowing two other vehicles to pass him.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Trying to save you. Because you’re my responsibility, not Kenneth. So are you going to tell me, Laney? Or are you going to walk the last couple of miles and hope your ‘good friend’ makes it?”

“Stop it, stop it, Ross. Why are you doing this? Don’t you care about him? About me?” Weeping, Laney made a grab for the gearshift in an attempt to jam the van back into drive.

Swamped with guilt and feeling like a bully, Ross was ready to relent when Laney burst out, “All right. If that’s what you want—it was Kenneth. We were just together once—okay, two or three times, tops. But it wasn’t right for either of us, you know? He was still hung up on Connie, and I was worried—Jake was so sick. This was before they found him by the lake.”

Ross stared at her, not comprehending. “You started sleeping with Kenneth before Jake died?”

Swiping away tears, Laney said, “You don’t understand how hard it was, Ross. Jake was going downhill so fast, and he was so angry all the time. Mad at God, mad at his disease and the fact that he had no money—mad at me for being healthy. One day he took a swing at me, and I was so upset, I went to Kenneth for advice on what I could do to help Jake. Because I loved him. I swear I did.”

“You went to Kenneth for advice? Come on, Laney, I know better. You wouldn’t ask a stranger to tell you what to do. You were going for drugs, weren’t you? Drugs you thought he might get you, because you must have heard about his—”

“There was no insurance,” Laney shouted. “What was I supposed to do? Jake needed…He was suffering.”

“And Kenneth took advantage of you,” Ross said flatly, though he was thinking, She’s still lying about something. This can’t be the whole story.

Avoiding his eyes, she stared out the passenger window. But he saw her reflection, marked the anger and resentment in it. “I swear, it wasn’t like that. I wasn’t trading sex for…I only…We both needed…It was terrible.”

Ross didn’t know whether she meant the situation or the sex, and he didn’t want to ask, especially with his thoughts focused on Fleming, who was showing every sign of emotional instability. Had he fixated on Laney enough to want to rid himself of the “problem” of Jake Willets?

Though it was possible the other “suicides” could have been staged to cloud the issue and cover Fleming’s tracks, he still couldn’t imagine such a cold act from a man now cracking under pressure and threatening to shoot himself.

“Who broke it off?” he asked her.

“Please, Ross, can’t we go now? Just drive, and we can talk about this later. I don’t care what you think about me; just go, for Kenneth’s sake. We still might save him.”

“I need to know…was it you?”

“Yes, yes. But we both knew…It was obvious it wasn’t working.”

Maybe not to Kenneth, Ross thought. Maybe instead, her rejection was the straw that broke the recovering addict, the one that had angered him enough to hurt her. Or had it been something else? “Did you tell him about the baby?”

“No, Ross—and I’m not answering another question. Please hurry.”

Ross put the van back into gear with emotion packed so tight inside him he could scarcely breathe: sharp regret at the way he had pushed Laney, disappointment that she had chosen to confide in Kenneth rather than the family who loved her, and mostly red, raw anger at the idea of a man who’d not only assaulted Laney but murdered three men to keep her his.

Ross wanted to hit someone, needed it in a way he hadn’t since the wreck that had claimed Anne’s life. He imagined his fists pounding Kenneth Fleming or even that jerk Erik Whatley, who had hurt Gwen so badly. For the moment, he wished he weren’t the kind of man who patched up the results of other people’s temper, but the kind who dealt out violence of his own.

Why couldn’t he be the same man who’d damned consequences by falling for Justine Wofford? The man who’d been willing to do whatever it took to be with her, even when the affair flew in the face of everything he was?

But as Ross, driving in stony silence while his cousin wept, turned into Kenneth’s subdivision, he reflected that if he’d learned nothing else in his life, he’d sorted out the inadvertent outcomes of way too many other people’s thoughtless actions. The kinds of actions that had taught him Justine had been right when she’d said, There’s no reverse gear on the time line. The only possibility is moving forward.

So for Laney’s sake, for his own, and for the bruised and battered love he still felt for Justine, Ross determined to do everything he could to keep from screwing up the situation even more thoroughly than it was.

“What the…?” Laney stared ahead of them, at a street of beautiful new homes clogged with milling people, flashing lights, and uniforms. A street transformed because of Kenneth Fleming’s actions. “Does this mean he’s dead? Is Kenneth dead already?”

Before Ross had even come to a full stop, she unhitched her seat belt, flung the door wide, and jumped out of the car at a dead run.

Chapter Twenty-seven

Stand fast, good Fate, to his hanging: make the rope of his destiny our cable, for our own doth little advantage.

—William Shakespeare, The Tempest, Act I, Scene 1

Justine spotted Laney slipping past one of the deputies. Moving quickly to intercept her, Justine clamped a firm hand on the tiny singer’s arm. “Back here, behind the vehicle. For your own safety, Miss Thibodeaux.”

“He’ll listen to me. I know he’ll listen.” Laney swatted Justine’s wrist and struggled to pull free.

Though the smaller woman was in no danger of escaping, Justine snapped, “Stop fighting me, Laney, or I’ll have you on the ground and in restraints so fast your head will spin.”

Shocked by her tone, Laney went still, instead staring with tears running down her face. “Please—I can’t be too late this time. Kenneth can’t die, too. Not after Jake and Hart and Caleb…Not after every…everything that’s…”

Laney crumpled, sobbing. Pitying her, Justine wrapped an arm around the younger woman to shepherd her toward safety—

Only to have Paul Miller roughly snatch Laney away, twisting her arm behind her and frog-marching her forward as he pulled a set of handcuffs from his belt. “I saw you resisting,” he snarled. “That’s assault on a law officer, disorderly conduct—”

“That won’t be necessary,” Justine told him. Catching movement from the corner of her eye, she saw Ross running toward them. “Let her go, Deputy. It’s all right.”

Miller’s gaze snapped from Justine to Ross and back again. “I see what it is,” he sneered.

In that moment, Justine wondered if Roger Savoy had told the other deputies about her relationship with Ross, or worse yet, shared those photographs from the motel room. Sick at the thought, she shoved it ruthlessly from her mind.

“Let her go,” Justine repeated, more firmly this time.

As Larry joined them, Miller released Laney, raising his palms and saying, “Sure. Let the little bitch assault an officer. Why the hell not?”

Regardless of the situation, Justine didn’t dare ignore his attitude. “Deputy Crane, please apprise Miss Thibodeaux and Dr. Bollinger of the situation inside. Miller, over this way.”

She led him a couple of car lengths down the street before glaring down at him. “We’ve got an armed man with a gun and civilians all around us. So the least—the very least—I expect is your professional behavior. Do I make myself—”

“But, Sheriff—”

“I’ve ignored a lot from you, Paul. Your attitude around the station, the broken pencils and the filings dumped in my coffee when I leave it—”

He slapped on a fresh coat of outrage over sullen features. “You think I’d do something like—”

“Button up and listen. I’ve heard you in the break room, I’ve heard you now in public, and I’m putting you on notice. Get your attitude in check. You can start by apologizing for calling Laney Thibodeaux a ‘little bitch.’”

“Hell, Sheriff, Laney Thibodeaux’s got her fucking fingerprints all over the same gun that killed Savoy. And I’m supposed to apologize to that?”

“We need answers about that gun, answers we can only get from its owner, Kenneth Fleming. So will you help me get him out alive, Paul? Or do I have to send you home and rely on others who aren’t half as competent?”

It was something she’d picked up from her old man, sweetening a bitter truth with the confidence that the employee had what it took to be a valued part of her team. And she wasn’t lying. Like Savoy, Miller had the smarts, the shrewdness to go far in law enforcement…if he could only learn to stifle his resentment of a boss he deemed unworthy.

Paul pursed his lips, his gaze drifting to Laney, who was standing supported by Ross as Larry talked to them both in his usual reassuring tones. Finally, Paul gave a tight nod, and without another word, he turned his back on Justine and stalked toward the group so quickly that she hurried after him in case she needed to avert disaster.

Ross locked eyes with his former classmate as Paul Miller barreled toward them, his expression fiercely focused, his strong jaw set with what looked liked barely controlled fury.

Ross edged partially in front of Laney.

Paul stared right past him. “I apologize, Miss Thibodeaux.” His voice was tight, almost mechanical, his eyes cold as dry ice. “Sometimes…sometimes emotions get a little out of hand at times like these. Mine did, and I’m sorry for it.”

Wincing, Laney surprised Ross by admitting, “I’m pretty sure I started it, and I’m sorry for that, too.” Her gaze shifted to Justine. “And for making your job harder, Sheriff. Deputy Crane was just telling me we’ll try calling Kenneth again.”

“Maybe he’ll answer when he sees it’s a friend calling,” Larry told her.

“I don’t have my phone,” Laney said, glancing briefly at Justine.

Ross knew she had taken it into evidence last Thursday and had found it too damaged by the rain to get much information. Justine had sent it to the state police, she’d told them, and now he wondered if they’d gotten back to her already. Had they found something damning—something else she’d withheld from him?

“Let’s try mine,” he said as he opened his cell phone and began scrolling through numbers. “Maybe he’ll take my call.”

He pushed a button to dial and held his free hand over his other ear to better hear. Laney watched expectantly, standing on her tiptoes with her hand poised as if to grab for the phone if Kenneth answered.

He heard Justine whisper to Larry, “Have you seen any more signs of movement inside lately?”

As Larry shook his head, Ross heard a click, and then a murmur in his phone. “Kenneth? Kenneth, this is Ross. And I’ve got Laney here, too. We’re both here. We’re out front—”

On the other end, Kenneth was crying, saying something like, “Don’t wanna talk to ’er,” but after that, the words came out so garbled, Ross couldn’t comprehend them.

“Slow down, please, so I can understand you.”

There were gasps and sobs, and finally, Kenneth said, “Connie. I want to be with my wife…I’m ready.”

“You want Connie?” Ross echoed, and looked at Larry, who carefully shook his head. Deciding to put honesty on hold, Ross added, “She’s on her way. Says she’ll be here soon as she can. Meanwhile, what’s this I hear about a gun, Ken? You don’t need that.”

“Let me talk to him,” Laney whispered, reaching up for the phone.

Turning aside, Ross ignored her, focusing on Kenneth’s words. Justine moved in beside Ross, placing her ear along the other side of the phone to try to hear.

“I do, I do need the gun,” said Kenneth. “Because…because I’ve really, really screwed up, Ross. First with Connie and the kids, then Laney. Can you ever forgive me? I never meant it to go so far. I never wanted anybody to get hurt.”

Ross felt a spreading coldness. Was Kenneth admitting he’d hurt Laney? Fingers tightening on the phone, Ross forced words past the icy shards of fury in his throat. “You hurt…Can we talk about this, Kenneth? Face-to-face and man-to-man?”

“I don’t want to see you, don’t want anyone but Connie. If anyone comes near, I swear I’m going to pull the trigger. I’ll kill myself—I mean it.”

“Please, Kenneth. Calm down. Connie’s coming,” Ross repeated as Justine made hand gestures to her deputies, her finger crooking as she swept it in the direction of the house. “They’re arranging a police escort for her, but it’s still going to be a while. Meantime, keep talking to me, Kenneth. Just keep talking.”

Deputies Crane and Miller started trotting toward a neighbor’s house two doors down from Kenneth’s. Backing up to a lake view as the houses all did, none of them had fences to obscure the natural beauty.

Nor was there anything to obstruct the movements of someone slipping from backyard to backyard.

“Can you see me, Kenneth?” Ross asked quickly. “I’m right here, across the street from your place. Laney’s with me. Look out front. She’ll be waving to you.”

“Don’t want to see her.” Kenneth’s words were choked by tears. “She’ll hate me now. I know it.”

“She won’t, Kenneth. She understands.” The words burned like acid in Ross’s mouth, but he forced himself to keep talking. “Why don’t you let me come in instead? Just put down the gun and I’ll—”

“No. I told you, anyone but Connie, and I…I’ll do it. I swear I will. It’s not like I’m doing the world any good alive, anyway.”

“Your kids love you,” Ross insisted, thinking of the school pictures Kenneth kept taped in his locker, the sweet-faced third-grade blonde girl, the kindergarten boy. “And Connie still cares—I’m sure she does. And at the hospital, we all—”

“No, you don’t. I can feel your disappointment, the way you don’t trust me to do the right thing—double-checking all my patients. And D-Debbie never misses a chance to trash me to the other nurses. Tremont said he’d fire me if…God, he’ll fire me now.”

“Maybe I can help,” Ross said as Justine nodded her encouragement. “If you explain to me what happened, I can tell him. I can talk to Laney, too. Tell her you didn’t mean to hurt her.”

Laney, who had moved to watched him, flinched at Ross’s words, then shook her head and mouthed the word no.

Still listening to the phone as best as she could, Justine waved another deputy in toward them.

“Connie was the one,” Kenneth insisted. “I really wanted Connie. But she wouldn’t listen to me, wouldn’t take my calls. And Laney needed help while you were away. She needed a man’s advice, she told me. Connie and the nurses might’ve forgotten I was a man, but Laney knew it, all right. She knew and she asked me about those notes she was getting.”

“She told me. She was grateful.”

“Yeah, she was. You weren’t around, and with Jake dead, she needed…She needed me, and you know? I really liked that. Liked the idea that one person in the universe wasn’t looking at me like a giant fuckup.”

“You’re not a fuckup, Kenneth,” Ross lied, noting that Kenneth wasn’t admitting his involvement with Laney before Jake Willets was found hanging. “You’re good at your work. You’re kind to others—look at how you stepped in to help Laney.” Or help yourself to my cousin, you sniveling bastard.

“It felt so good—I felt so good, that I started writing my own. Got a little carried away with them, a little kinky, like about her—God, Ross. I can’t tell you.”

“You were sending Laney those notes? So she would come to you for more advice?”

Still watching, Laney froze, her eyes widening like a snared rabbit’s.

“A lot of ’em. Yeah, I did,” Kenneth admitted, “and the sheriff’s going to find out. She’ll figure out the handwriting sample I gave matches the—”

“Not the DNA, Ken?” Ross pressed. “Will your DNA match the sample from the hospital? The one they took from Laney’s clothes?”

Wiping her eyes, Laney turned away from Ross and Justine, as Kenneth shouted at Ross, “No, that isn’t right, I swear it. I never touched her that way. But don’t you see, it was still my fault. If I’d gotten her to go to the sheriff instead of trying to play the big man, then it could have been stopped. He could have.”

“Who could have?” Ross asked him.

“Whoever raped her,” Kenneth said, “the sheriff could’ve caught him. I should’ve known Laney would never use that gun I gave her. So it’s my fault—just another way I’ve screwed everything up. Another reason for Connie to say—”

“You’re wrong,” Ross said quietly, inventing as he went. Because if what Kenneth was telling him was true, Ross owed the man enough compassion to toss him a life raft. And if the man was lying, Ross still wanted him brought out alive, to clear his cousin of suspicion. “You see, I’ve talked to Connie, and she really does care. She’s just been waiting, she said. Waiting for you to finally pull yourself together. Like tough love, you know? She’s just been acting like it’s over because she wants to help you help yourself.”

“She…she does?” Wonder flooded Kenneth’s voice, making the man sound strangely childlike.

Ross heard a clatter in the background, followed by Kenneth’s sharply drawn breath.

“No,” yelled Fleming, his mouth turned away from the phone. “Stay out. Stay back or I—”

Justine’s and Laney’s heads swiveled toward the house at the same moment Ross heard the staccato burst of gunfire from both the phone and, offset by a split second, across the street. A clatter followed—sounding like Kenneth’s phone falling—as Ross shouted Fleming’s name into his own cell.

“What’s happening? Were those shots?” cried Laney.

Justine sprinted toward the house, the deputies on crowd control running in the same direction. Ross wanted to follow, but with all the drawn guns, he forced himself to hold up and pressed his ear to the phone.

In it, he heard voices shouting in the background. Paul Miller’s, Ross thought. Maybe Larry’s, too.

Which would mean…Ross’s stomach went slippery. With a glance at Laney’s panicked face, he forced himself to get a grip on his emotions. He didn’t have the luxury to indulge them—and Fleming might not have the time.

He saw the front door open just as Justine reached it, with Larry looking pale and shaky as he waved her and the other deputy inside.

Taking that as his cue, Ross told Laney, “I’m going in. I have to see what I can do—in case someone’s injured.”

“But I want to—”

“Then come with me,” he said, feeling the cold finger of a premonition that she’d take off the moment he left her unattended.

Taking her by the hand, he ran with Laney toward the house.

“What happened? Are you all right?” Justine asked Larry as he led her through a formal living room. His face, she’d noticed, was misted red with blood.

“We found a key hidden by the back door, but he heard us come in, ran at us shouting.” Sweat beaded Larry’s forehead, dampened his comb-over. “He raised the gun—pointing at us. But Paul and I…we…The training kicks in, you know? The training and adrenaline and…We couldn’t let him shoot us.”

In the kitchen, Paul Miller squatted behind Fleming’s prone form, the deputy’s knees planted in the spreading puddle of the downed man’s blood. Fleming’s pink bathrobe had gone deep red around what appeared to be two fist-size exit wounds in his back. Red enough that Justine suspected Miller wouldn’t find the vitals he was seeking.

“You two hit? You all right?” she asked her men.

“Fine,” Paul said between gasps, “but Fleming…Can’t find his pulse.”

Larry nodded jerkily, then lurched toward the kitchen sink to vomit noisily.

Flinching at the sound, which somehow bothered her more than the carnage, Justine said, “We’ve got an ER doctor on scene. Let me get him.”

As she turned, she told the deputy behind her, “Baker, call an ambulance. Then tell Rose what we have going; have her call Vaughn in to do evidence. Soon as you finish, go help Jacobs control the crowd, or we’ll have ’em peeping in the windows any minute.”

As Baker stepped outside, Justine met Ross and Laney by the front door.

“Is it Kenneth?” Ross asked.

Nodding, she gestured toward the kitchen. “You’d better come in—hurry. Laney, you stay right here—I can’t let you—”

“I need to see him,” Laney pleaded as Ross made his way farther into the house. “Please let me go, before he—”

“I’m sorry,” Justine told her. She felt Laney’s grief but couldn’t let her contaminate the scene or get in the way of Ross’s efforts at resuscitation. As bad as Fleming looked, there might still be hope.

After parking Laney on the sofa, Justine returned to the kitchen to find Larry Crane, eyes averted, clutching the sink for dear life while Ross, now on his knees across from Miller, said, “Help me roll him over, quick. Let’s see what we’ve got.”

“He raised the gun, pointed it right at us,” Miller said as he moved to help. “I had to shoot him.”

“It’s all right,” Justine said, though she knew there would be an investigation into the shooting. “Are you okay? Do you need—”

“I’ve got a family, three kids and a sweet wife,” Miller went on, too keyed up to stop talking. “And Larry, too. He and Marianne—they’ll have a baby of their own soon. So I had to shoot—for both of us.”

Justine looked at Larry. “I thought you said…It wasn’t both of you?”

Crane wouldn’t meet her gaze, and in that moment she understood that he’d lied to her initially, embarrassed by the fact that he’d frozen.

Ross and Miller rolled over Fleming’s limp form to expose a front side so bloody, it was hard to see—

“Two, no three GSWs—chest and abdomen,” Ross announced, still scanning the body as he rose up over Fleming to start CPR. “And damn it—here’s another through the cheekbone.”

She watched the two men work, watched the blood pour out of Fleming with every chest compression. But unlike her second in command, who stood still as a statue as he stared out a window, she didn’t pause in her work, no more than Paul and Ross could quit their obviously doomed effort.

She used her cell phone’s camera to snap a series of photos, and afterward, she talked to Laney in the next room while they waited for an ambulance to do a transport better suited to a hearse.

Chapter Twenty-eight

Short drop or suspension hanging is, at least initially, likely to be very painful as the person struggles for air against the compression of the noose and against the weight of their own body, being supported entirely by the neck and jaw…While 1 to 3 minutes before unconsciousness sets in may not sound a long time it must feel like an eternity to the suspended and struggling prisoner…

An Iranian man identified only as Niazali, was hanged in February 1996 but survived after the victim’s relatives pardoned him. He told the Iranian daily newspaper “Kayhan” what it had felt like. “That first second lasted like a thousand years. I felt my arms and legs jerking out of control. Up on the gallows in the dark, I was trying to fill my lungs with air, but they were crumpled up like plastic bags.” Niazali’s hanging reportedly lasted 20 minutes.

—Richard Clark, from “Hanged by the Neck Until Dead! The Processes and Physiology of Judicial Hanging” (www.capitalpunishmentuk.org)

With Kenneth en route to the hospital and two deputies working on evidence collection while Laney was transported to the sheriff’s office, Justine found Larry Crane standing in the Fleming front yard, his hands stuffed in his pockets. Probably to hide their shaking. “We need to talk, Deputy.”

Deliberately, she didn’t use his brand-new title.

He caught on in an instant, his gaze snapping to hers, his expression apprehensive. “So you’re demoting me? For this?”

“I’m not saying that.” She searched for some way to ease him through the moment. “It’s a big thing, shooting down another human being. Not everybody’s wired right to do it.”

But a law enforcer had to be prepared, she thought, sickened by what might have happened to both of her men had Paul Miller missed or been disabled.

“It happened so fast. And Miller was a little quicker, that’s all.”

Miller had gotten off four shots, at least, Justine knew. That, combined with Larry’s attempt to make her think he’d fired, gave her plenty to chew over. “Both of you need to go through crisis counseling and stick to desk duty until we finish an investigation.”

“You’re going to demote me,” Larry repeated, looking so certain of disaster, she was reminded of the “Ichabod” she’d known so long.

“I haven’t thought it through yet,” she admitted. But she knew already her men would never follow a second in command who went catatonic in a crisis. And she couldn’t blame them. She wouldn’t trust him backing her up either. “Maybe once you see the counselor…”

She kept the statement carefully noncommittal, but she saw defeat in his expression, and bitter understanding that the harder, tougher men who’d made his life a misery were better suited to the profession than any amount of counseling could ever make him.

Hours later at the hospital, Ross slogged through the tasks of showering and donning fresh scrubs after tossing his bloody clothes in the biohazard bin. The afternoon had left him aching with exhaustion, his limbs leaden and his emotions wrung dry.

Four bullets had finally put an end to Kenneth Fleming’s screwups—and to any possibility of redemption in this lifetime. Ross and Tremont and Susan Hartwell, another ER doc on duty, had worked on the limp body as if they’d had a chance. Had worked on him far beyond the possibility that Kenneth might be brought back.

It was Debbie Brown who had finally said what no one else would. “This won’t help. He’s gone, doctors. Dr. Fleming—the patient’s finally at peace.”

Tremont glanced at her sharply before looking at the clock and nodding. Solemnly, he pronounced, “Time of death: five forty-two p.m.”

Finally at peace, Ross thought, his mind echoing Debbie’s words as he headed for the break room in search of a coffee booster. In those last moments before the deputies had startled him into pointing his gun their way, had Ross’s white lie about Kenneth’s ex-wife offered him peace or the hope of it? Whether or not his dishonesty had been wrong, Ross preferred the thought that his coworker had died filled with something other than terror and self-loathing.

As he poured a mug of coffee, the break room door squeaked and Debbie Brown stuck her head in. “Put down that carafe. It’s poison,” she warned.

Midpour, he hesitated, waiting for an explanation but too damned tired to ask.

“Hours old,” she started. “And caffeine’s hard on the heart. Especially after your exertion.”

“You need to get past that,” Ross told her. “I have. Or do you want a note from my cardiologist?”

He filled his cup with tar-black sludge that smelled burned and bitter. Deliberately took a sip, though it was hot enough to scald.

She came all the way inside and leaned against the door. “Listen, Ross, I’m sorry about Kenneth.”

“Are you? Because you rode him every day he was on duty, never cut him any slack.”

“Don’t be a horse’s ass if you can help it. If I pushed him,” Debbie said, “it’s because I wanted him to be the best doctor possible. And part of the best emergency staff this county’s ever seen. Because that matters to me.”

Ross went to the split-seamed vinyl sofa and sank down to its lumpy surface, his elbows resting on his knees. “I know, Deb. Everyone knows you’re the main reason we’re as good as we are. We appreciate that.”

He felt her sit down beside him, caught a flash of reddish hair in his peripheral vision as she laid her warm hand on his forearm.

“Do you appreciate it?” she asked quietly. “Enough to understand I have your best interests at heart, too?”

Surprised by her touch, her words, he looked into her blue eyes. And saw the offer of a relationship far less complicated, far easier than what he’d known with Justine. But as much as Ross liked and respected Debbie, he couldn’t picture himself with her, not even for a moment.

“My shift’s over,” she added. “If you wanted to go somewhere to talk…”

Not wanting to hurt her, he stood and rubbed at his back to disguise his withdrawal from her hand. “You’re a good friend, Debbie,” he said gently. “I’d like to keep it that way.”

Lifting the coffee, which tasted as bad as it smelled, he took another swig before adding, “But don’t expect me to give up all of my bad habits.”

Still on the sofa, Debbie crossed her arms. “I’d settle for just one. That woman.”

“You mean Sheriff Wofford.” None of the women in his life liked Justine, but they didn’t know her. Didn’t see the caring person behind the hard-shelled mask.

“I was…I happened to be driving through your neighborhood,” Debbie admitted. “Earlier, when you were about to go inside. You had her with you, Ross, and the two of you were—”

“You happened by?”

Shaking her head, Debbie stood, something ugly glittering behind her blue eyes. “It’s not like that. I’m just worried, that’s all. I’m not like my ex-husband.”

Troubled by her expression, he asked, “What’s going on, Deb? This is the second time you’ve brought him up recently. And you seem…You haven’t been yourself.”

“It’s nothing, nothing really.” Embarrassment stained her face. “It’s just…I’ve seen him around lately.”

“Around here?”

“He’s in the area on business. Probably something shady, if he’s involved with it.”

“Is he bothering you?”

“Oh, no. He’s all about whatever deal he’s working on and whatever woman he’s scamming. It’s just…Well, seeing him’s upset me. He’s not supposed to be here, kicking up bad memories.” She shivered.

Ross didn’t like what he was hearing. Didn’t like it at all. “Who is he?”

She pulled herself together. “Doesn’t matter. We should be thinking about Kenneth’s family right now.”

Ross nodded. “Are they here yet? Did Connie bring the kids? I want to tell them…They should know Kenneth was thinking of them at the end.”

“I heard she’s on her way. Poor woman’s been through so much with that man already…” Debbie shook her head and made for the door. Pausing to look at Ross, she managed a sad smile. “Some people can’t see what’s bad for them…and what would be a whole lot better.”

She opened the door, where Justine was standing, her fist poised to knock.

“He’s inside,” Debbie said coldly, thumbing a gesture over her shoulder before stalking past the sheriff.

Justine slipped inside and closed the door behind her. “Ouch. I think she scorched off a couple layers of my face with that look.”

“She was in the room when Kenneth…” Ross said, feeling drained enough to go back to the sofa with his coffee. “Pretty tough day on everybody.”

Justine nodded and grabbed a foam cup, then poured herself some of the brew. Wincing as she sipped, she shook her head. “God bless America—and they say cop coffee’s awful. I’d have a mutiny on my hands if we served this battery acid.”

When he didn’t respond, she set the cup on a small table and got down to business. “I wrote down everything I remember, including what I heard Kenneth telling you on the phone. Got Larry’s and Paul’s statements, but I’m going to need yours, too.”

He nodded, looked up at her. “What about my cousin? You question her already?”

“I asked her if she wanted to wait for her lawyer.” Lifting her chin slightly, she added, “Reminded her it would only be a couple hours before he got here. But she wanted to talk, Ross. You expected me to stop her?”

“Damn it, she was in shock, Justine. A good friend of hers was gunned down. She saw all that blood, saw everything when we took him to the ambulance. And you used it against her that way?” Disgusted, he looked away from her. “Maybe Debbie’s right about you. You’re all about the job and that’s it.”

“Then maybe you ought to sleep with her instead of me,” Justine snapped, though he saw the pain in her eyes, a stark reminder of how she’d looked when he’d slapped his keys on his bathroom counter and told her to drive herself. “That or go to hell. ’Cause you’re not the only person having a shit day.”

Jaw tightening, Ross looked away and rubbed the back of his neck. How could the two of them have gone from making love to this in the space of a few hours?

“If you’re ready to stop giving me grief and listen,” she said, “I want to tell you your cousin’s story lines up with what I overheard from Fleming. Considering the evidence of sexual assault and doping, there’s no way we’re going forward with charges against her.”

“Do I hear a yet in there?”

“You do,” Justine said bluntly. “Because she’s still lying to me about where she was going Thursday. I can’t prove it, but I damned well know.”

He turned to face her. “It isn’t what you think.”

“Then tell me right now, Ross. Tell me what it is.” She looked at him expectantly, the weight of her stare convincing Ross that one way or another, she would find out. That it would go better if she did so sooner instead of later.

“Laney’s pregnant,” he said. “When I pushed her on it, she admitted Fleming was the father. That they’d gotten involved not long before Jake’s death. She’s embarrassed, and I’m sure she feels guilty.”

Justine frowned, her expression thoughtful. “Maybe she has reason. Especially if she and Kenneth got together and decided they’d all be better off if her sick boyfriend disappeared.”

Ross shook his head and swore. “If you have to blame someone, try Fleming. Laney’s practically a kid, and he took advantage of her. The guy was already on the edge. It’s not her fault he went off the deep end.”

Justine said nothing, but he could almost hear her thinking, trying to work out how Laney might have played the femme fatale, using sex to give an unstable man a final push. Furious at himself for trying to make Justine understand and merely handing her more ammunition, Ross said, “You know what? You can take that badge of yours and go to hell yourself.”

As she stalked toward the parking lot, Justine kept her head down, her focus fixed straight ahead. She had lost two husbands already, she thought, and had survived. So why should she be upset about the crumbling of a simple affair, especially one she’d known from the start stood absolutely no chance?

Why should she care whether Ross moved on to the nurse-in-waiting, to any of the women, nice women, with far less baggage, who’d be thrilled to give him the children he wanted?

They could freaking have him, and his precious family too…

But as Justine’s temper cooled, the ache inside her deepened. An ache that screamed she was walking in the wrong direction, running from something that was more than worth the fixing.

So turn around, she ordered herself. Go back and make him understand the way you feel about him. Then at least he’d know what he was saying “go to hell” to.

She hesitated, memories spooling through her mind of the day he’d told her their relationship “wasn’t working for him,” of the day he’d told her, You’re a woman who loves hard.

So she was, she thought, and with plenty of good reason. But even if she wanted to, how could she change something so elemental in her nature at this stage? It was as useless as Larry Crane’s attempts to recast himself as a leader after playing the doormat most of his life.

Shaking off her pain, Justine struggled to refocus on her work, to think about sharp pencils filling out her Book of Known Facts.

A flash of motion at her right attracted her attention. An SUV—one of her department’s, with Larry at the wheel.

“I need you to hop in,” he shouted as he cranked down the window. He looked upset, almost panic-stricken. “We have to get to your house. Fast.”

Her heart jammed into overdrive. “What’s happening? Is it…Is it—”

“Noah,” Larry said, confirming her worst fears. “Your dad needs…Just get in. I’ll tell you on the way there.”

Her stomach plunging, Justine ran around the front end of the vehicle on legs that felt suddenly too shaky to support her. Not Noah, she prayed. Please don’t let it be my son…

Because if losing Ross was a risk she couldn’t take, losing Noah was the one she knew would utterly destroy her.

It wasn’t the coffee’s caffeine that got Ross moving but the idea that he’d finally pushed Justine too far, that this time, his need to protect a loved one had made him say the unforgivable. She’d compromised for him, possibly risking her career to do so, while he’d allowed emotion to make him the horse’s ass Debbie had named him…

After promising Justine just this afternoon that he was willing to wait for her, work through their issues—whatever it took to forge a real relationship. After telling her in no uncertain terms he loved her.

Nice way to show it, he thought as he loped down the corridor, making his way toward the exit.

He left the hospital in time to see her running to the passenger side of a marked department SUV, throwing open the door, and jumping inside before it took off. Though the truck’s emergency lights weren’t on, something in her movements, in what he saw of her expression, sent blue-hot alarm blazing up his backbone. Something was dead wrong there. Even more wrong than his behavior.

You’re being ridiculous, he told himself. She’s the county sheriff. She responds to emergency calls every day…

So why wasn’t she driving the same vehicle she’d used to get here—the vehicle she’d left sitting in the lot? Had it refused to start, perhaps? What else could be the reason?

Whether out of paranoia or instinct, his gaze latched onto the white Suburban, his mind flashing to the last day Anne had driven off on a call, so angry with him that she hadn’t taken time for one final kiss good-bye.

Chapter Twenty-nine

Telemachus said to the other two,

“I shall not let these women die a clean death, for they were insolent to me and my mother, and used to sleep with the suitors.”

So saying he made a ship’s cable fast to one of the bearingposts that supported the roof of the domed room, and secured it all around the building, at a good height, lest any of the women’s feet should touch the ground; and as thrushes or doves beat against a net that has been set for them in a thicket just as they were getting to their nest, and a terrible fate awaits them, even so did the women have to put their heads in nooses one after the other and die most miserably. Their feet moved convulsively for a while, but not for very long.

—Homer, from The Odyssey (Samuel Butler translation)

Climbing into the passenger seat, Justine cried, “Go—and hurry. And whatever it is, tell me. You’re going to have to—”

As the vehicle lurched forward, Larry glanced at her. Or not precisely at her, but behind her.

This, combined with her surprise that her father hadn’t called her, was Justine’s sole warning before a pair of strong hands slipped something slim and dark over her head and pulled back hard against her neck—hard enough to cut off her breathing instantly.

Instinct brought her hands up, her nails digging into her own flesh as she sought to remove the shocking pain and pressure. Swerving to the right, Larry stopped the truck and reached across her, even as she groped with one hand for her weapon. By the time her mind registered his betrayal, he had the gun, and her vision was swarming with thick, gray globs edged by lightning.

Drawing back her knees, she kicked out at Larry as she scratched the back of the strong hands still pulling the strap tight across her throat. She felt her foot strike Larry’s knee, heard him yelp with pain. But her lungs screamed for oxygen, and the gray globs exploded like a million fireworks. Her movements went from frantic to spasmodic, weakening and then stilling altogether.

The last thing she heard was Larry’s dim voice, saying, “Let up on her, all right? We can’t have her dying. Not here, anyway. Not yet.”

The SUV had barely reached the road when Ross saw it swerve onto the shoulder and stop abruptly. Was that…What was he seeing through the driver’s window? He couldn’t make out the deputy’s face, but he would swear he was watching some kind of struggle.

Heart pounding, Ross looked wildly around the parking lot but saw no one until a tan sedan backed out of its space. Recognizing Debbie’s Accord, he raced to catch her, regretting the hope that flashed over her expression as she jammed the brakes and began lowering the window.

He didn’t wait but instead tore open the passenger-side door. Jumping in, he watched her eyes round at his expression.

“What is it, Ross? What’s wrong?”

He pointed to the white Suburban, which had resumed its journey in the direction of the lake. “I need you to follow them,” he said, “but hang back some. It’s important they don’t see that we’re behind them.”

Debbie didn’t take her foot off the brake. “What on earth? What’s going on here? I’m not moving till you—”

“Just drive, will you?” he roared, not caring when she shrank back. “Either drive or get the hell out of the way and let me go alone.”

Chapter Thirty

Hope is the most sensitive part of a poor wretch’s soul; whoever raises it only to torment him is behaving like the executioners in Hell who, they say, incessantly renew old wounds and concentrate their attention on that area of it that is already lacerated.

—The Marquis de Sade, in a 1781 letter to his wife from prison

Justine woke to a throbbing in her neck, the kind that told her she must have slept with her head turned at an awkward angle. Eyes still closed, she struggled to recall the dream, but nothing remained of it but the dark miasma of some shocking betrayal.

Shake it off, she told herself, and reached to rub her neck.

Or tried to. Her hands were trapped, bound up in…the covers? And she felt something, road vibration. Was she in a moving vehicle?

Jolting fully awake, she heard men talking, slamming her with realization: This was no dream. It was a nightmare, real and present, encircling her neck and accounting for her pain. Though forced upright by the strap, she could at least breathe. For the moment.

They meant to kill her; that much was clear. But bound as she was, what could she do to stop them?

“Regular payments, soon as it’s up and running,” came the voice behind her.

It was all Justine could do to feign unconsciousness. For she had heard that voice before, heard it when her father had played Noah’s digital recorder into the phone. This was the same man who’d dared take her son, the same bastard who’d put the rough hemp rope around Noah’s thin neck…

“Cash payments—I want cash,” insisted a second, even more familiar voice. Shock broke over Justine again in fresh waves. Larry Crane, her chief deputy—the one man she had trusted. “To my campaign before the election and then afterward, to me. I won’t have the same damned footprints in my bank accounts that you left all over hers and Savoy’s. Still can’t believe nobody figured that out. Not all that subtle, once you look at the initials, Mr. Sunrise Happy Doodle. You think you were being funny, or did you mean to send a message?”

Justine tried to think, but couldn’t. What had Larry figured out that she’d missed? SHD—of course. Oh, God.

“A real comedian—that’s me.” Laughter, clipped and mirthless, followed. “Cash’ll be fine, Crane, now that you’ve gone too far to back out on me.”

“Is that what happened with Savoy?” Larry asked, sounding nervous. “He try to screw you over once you paid him?”

“Didn’t work out too well for him, either. Dumb ass turned his back on me—me with a handy silk handkerchief in my pocket—while he was looking through that abandoned car for evidence.”

The disjointed thought floated through Justine’s mind that Savoy must have called Laney to tell her he’d found her car, must have gotten her cell number while investigating the noose found in her aunt’s kitchen.

“Started running his mouth about how he hadn’t signed on to help snatch kids and he wasn’t killing anybody, not even this bitch sheriff.”

The speaker gave Justine’s neck a vicious yank, hard enough to make her cry out and struggle against the pain. He kept the pressure tight so that bloody starbursts exploded in her vision and her lungs collapsed on themselves.

“I figured to warn you off by dumping the body in your pasture,” he said, “but you couldn’t take the hint, could you? You stubborn goddamned…”

His words dissolved into the roaring in Justine’s ears. Spasming, her body jerked so hard it threatened to pull her shoulders from their sockets as she fought the cuffs that bound her hands behind her. Kicking wildly, she bit down on her tongue and tasted blood.

“C’mon, man. Not in the truck.” Edged with panic, Larry’s plea cut through the awful din. “Tough explaining stains in my truck—and we can’t get caught. I can’t.”

“What’s wrong with you? Have you gone crazy?” Blue eyes wide, Debbie stared up in alarm, her mouth an open circle and her hands tight on the wheel.

With no time for her questions, Ross jumped out of the car and went around to her side. Something in his face must have scared her, for he saw her going for the lock as he ripped the door open and dragged her from the car.

“I’m sorry, Deb. I’m really sorry.”

“What—No!” she cried as he climbed in and threw the Honda into gear.

Barely registering the next words she screamed at him, he mashed the gas pedal to the floorboard, spinning the car’s tires before they abruptly bit into the lot’s surface and flung him toward the road.

A passing car slammed its brakes, horn blaring, as Ross cut off the driver. Ignoring the noise, he looked straight ahead, but by now the county SUV was out of sight.

A grim idea flashed through his head, a location that had haunted his nightmares since his last trip there with Justine. Following fear as much as instinct, he raced toward the turnoff, though at every intersection he slowed to look both ways for the missing vehicle.

With no luck, he continued, praying he was wrong about this, that he’d somehow misinterpreted what he’d seen before scaring Debbie half to death and committing a fistful of crimes in the process.

But a grave awareness overtook him, a grim knowledge that lurked beneath the surface, steadying his hands, his heart, and steeling his mind for whatever was to come.

Call someone, that segment of subconscious commanded. You can drive and call for help at the same time.

But with at least one, maybe more of the department’s deputies involved, where exactly could he call? Whom could he trust?

As he reached for his phone, he caught his first glimpse of the taillights. Taillights of a large vehicle headed toward Bone Lake.

As the pressure eased, Justine sucked in precious oxygen and willed herself not to whimper, not to weep, not to think about the child depending on her or the father who would hardly be surprised that, once again, his daughter had trusted the wrong man.

Not Ross. But she’d messed up there, too, holding herself back for so long, then walking out rather than making certain he knew that whatever happened with his cousin, she would be on his side. On their side.

So tell him, whispered a voice inside her head. A voice she hadn’t heard in years. Hadn’t really listened to in even longer.

Mom? she asked, opening her eyes to see her mother smiling at her. Her mother, as beautiful and statuesque as she’d been before the cancer struck her.

Sitting at her vanity set, she set down her brush and looked into her mirror at the girl on the bed. Tell your father how he made you feel. Talk it over with him.

She caught a lingering note of her mother’s perfume, and Justine was back there, in her parents’ bedroom at the new house, the one built after the fire. Lying on her stomach on the comforter, all of eleven, maybe twelve, and aching with grief she didn’t dare express, grief for both the brother she had lost and the father who’d turned his back on her.

You killed him… His words roared back at her, as clear as ever—words spoken in those first raw weeks after the fire.

He hates me, Justine told her mother. He hates me because it was all my fault.

Her mother turned on the little stool where she sat. Leaning forward, she shook her head, her dark eyes leaking tears. No. He hates himself. Because he’s never been so wrong.

And just that quickly, it came spinning back. The fire marshal’s report, which her mother had explained to her in detail while her father stood at her side mutely, stoic in his grief. The blaze’s origin—an ashtray containing a lit marijuana cigarette, hurriedly shoved under her brother’s bed when he’d run downstairs to see his friend’s new truck. The ignition point the edge of a sheet that came into contact with the burning joint.

Eddie had perished in a fire he’d accidentally started. Died because he couldn’t bear the thought of losing his only sister to a mistake he may have realized was his own.

But Justine had refused to hear it. Had absorbed almost nothing except her father’s inability to look her in the eye.

Had understood so little, until an adult’s perspective allowed her to see it all with new eyes: her father’s regret and shame for lashing out as he had. Her shattered confidence pushing her toward a string of flawed decisions.

So many mistakes, so little forgiveness. Not so much for her father or the men in her life, but for a woman who thought she’d deserved no better…

Another jerk at her neck. A jolt of pain so sharp, it made Justine gasp, her eyes flaring.

“Awake now, are you?” Standing outside the open truck door, Erik Whatley of Southern Humane Detention leaned in to leer at her, the sunset turning golden the silver of his hair. “Good. I want you to feel every minute. I want you to die in agony, you bitch.”

Chapter Thirty-one

Thou shalt not be a victim. Thou shalt not be a perpetrator. Above all, thou shalt not be a bystander.

—Martin Luther King Jr.

With no weapon and little hope that the help he’d called would make it in time, Ross had hung well back as the white Suburban pulled off the road into the darkening woods. He waited as long as he dared, then followed, leaving the headlights off in the hope he wouldn’t be spotted.

Debbie’s car rolled forward, wallowing in ruts before getting stuck. Cursing, Ross tried to back up, but it was no use. The Accord had taken him as far as it could.

He climbed out of the car and ducked when he spotted headlights flickering through the trees behind him. Keeping low, he raced into the shadow of the trees, cutting through the brush toward the lake. He paused only once to look back over his shoulder in the hope that someone—preferably the cavalry—had arrived. But seeing nothing, Ross decided the vehicle, and the answer to his prayers for help, had passed by on its way elsewhere.

But he couldn’t turn his back on Justine, no matter what it cost him. So he simply blundered forward, deeper into the gloom.

Erik Whatley pushed a gun in Justine’s face. Not Lou’s gun, which had been taken from her inside the Suburban, but the same SIG Sauer she had lost in these very woods the night of Laney Thibodeaux’s attack. But a bullet didn’t scare her half as much as the rope Whatley had coiled over his shoulder. A rope that told her all she needed to know of his plans for her.

Whatley said, “I should’ve shot you when I followed you out here that time before. Or should’ve bashed your fucking head in with the golf club.”

“You…” she slurred. “You bastard…”

“I gave you warning after warning to quit pretending you didn’t know about your husband’s deal with us and—”

Head drooping, Justine flexed her knees, feigning a collapse even as a desperate strength coiled in her muscles. Though her hands remained cuffed and she couldn’t see where Larry was, she knew she was running out of time. Time for anything except enough of a surprise to cause confusion. Maybe, if she was supremely lucky, enough confusion to escape into the gathering darkness.

When she didn’t respond, Whatley leaned in close to whisper, “Or maybe I should’ve killed that kid of yours, that goddamned little freak.”

Seizing her fury, she launched herself up and forward, slamming the top of her head into the man’s face, hitting him hard enough to send a fresh crop of stars bursting across her vision. Yelping with the impact, Whatley staggered backward.

Justine tried to run. But with her arms pulled back and her world careening, she managed only a few steps before pitching forward. Her ribs slammed into a stumplike cypress knee with an audible crack and splintering pain.

A deafening roar of gunshot followed, dirt and wood chips spraying her and acrid smoke burning her nostrils. But she couldn’t suck in a deep breath, couldn’t even cry out. The agony of her rib cage wouldn’t let her.

“Just a warning, Sheriff,” Larry Crane said, speaking from a spot not far to her left. His voice shook, a last vestige of the old Ichabod, but she heard the resolve, perhaps even the desperation, of a man who had gone too far to turn back. “Don’t move. Because I’m ready to prove I’ve got the goddamned guts to do this.”

Nearby, she heard Whatley groaning, “God damn it—bitch broke my nose.”

Ignoring him, Justine scooped out shallow breaths and tasted something metallic—more blood from her bitten tongue?

“Larry, why?” she managed, barely achieving a whisper. Trying again, she asked, “Why? After all I’ve—”

“It’s not my fault,” he insisted. “It’s these damned greedy doctors and their expensive treatments. They feed your hope with science—fertility drugs and surgery, in vitro, egg donorship. And then a surrogate—we have to pay for her, too. Nobody ever brings up how all this costs a fortune, how fast that stuff eats through your savings—and the second mortgage you had to take out. They just assume that you can—”

“Please, for my son,” Justine pleaded.

Larry spoke over her. “I can’t tell Marianne there’s no more money. It’s breaking her heart tending everybody else’s kids when she deserves to be a mother. Besides, I’ve had enough of these bastards saying I don’t have the balls to make my own kid. And telling me I’d never have the guts to grab a little on the side to pay for treatment.”

Misery resonated through Crane’s voice, as if the pathetic worm still saw himself as poor, maligned Ichabod rather than a Judas.

“Not…not grabbing a little here.” She gasped the words, her breathing growing more painful with each word. “This—it’s murder.”

Footsteps crunched through the dried leaves, and Whatley stooped to shove a noose over her head. “She’s had as much of a fucking explanation as she’s going to get. Now get up, bitch. Up before I shoot you where you lie.”

As he snugged the knot around her neck, Justine wondered, Would it be quicker and less painful dying from a bullet or swinging from a branch?

With his eyes adjusting to the twilight shadows, Ross pushed his way through the Spanish moss hanging like webs meant to entangle man-size prey. He’d been moving in the wrong direction, his heart pounding and sweat streaming from his failure to find Justine, when a gunshot drew him like a beacon.

Other things moved through the underbrush as well. Birds startled from cover by the blast, raccoons or maybe small deer or a possum eager to avoid the larger creatures disturbing their domain. No snakes yet that he’d heard, but they had to be here, too, along with their alligator cousins so close to the water.

Bulling his way through thorny vines, Ross forged ahead, nothing in his hand for a weapon but the arm-size branch he’d snapped off a fallen tree. Not enough to stop a bullet, but that wasn’t going to dissuade him. Not when fate had allowed him a chance, however minute, to stop death in its tracks this time and save the woman he’d driven off with his words.

Finally close enough, he heard the rough murmur of conversation, pulled Justine’s choked questions from the mix. “Why? Why…kill…those musicians? What’ve you got to do with—”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing,” came a voice Ross recognized.

And it finally sank it, what Debbie had been shouting as he’d driven off in her car. You’re not him, Ross. You’re not Erik! The ex-husband who’d abused her.

Gwen’s desperate, cash-strapped lover, Erik Whatley.

But had he come alone, desperate enough to steal a department SUV to catch Justine off guard?

“And that’s the beauty of it.” Whatley sounded absolutely gleeful, like a man freed of unbearable burdens. “Whatever happens here tonight gets pinned on some psycho. Now get up. On your feet.”

Branch poised, Ross moved even nearer, until he finally spotted a silhouetted form bent over a second figure. Justine, lying on her side. In one of Whatley’s hands, Ross recognized a gun, while the other held the end of a rope coiled over one shoulder.

Whatley pulled it, dragging Justine like a leashed animal. With a choked cry, she moved to her hands and knees and struggled desperately to her feet. Whatley jerked back even harder, causing her to fall forward once again as he laughed. “God, this is gonna be fun. See how you like struggling for survival for a change.”

Ross rushed at the bastard. Swinging the branch like a baseball bat, he made contact with Whatley’s skull even as Whatley swung the gun around to shoot him.

Ross heard the crack, felt the force of the blow traveling up his arms. But the gunshots didn’t give him time to worry.

The gunshots from a wholly unexpected angle.

“Ross!” Justine called, desperate to be heard over the shooting going on around them, between Larry on the one side and some unseen gunman on the other. Let it be help, she prayed. Help enough to save them. “Ross—get down. Please.”

As he lowered himself, something struck him, turned him. Sprawling awkwardly, he landed facedown with a grunt, his hand reaching to cover the dark blood at his left shoulder.

“Behind you, Deputy—move and you’re dead,” came the order, harsh, commanding, and stone-cold. “Toss the gun into the bushes or you’ll spoil everything.”

“Head down. Don’t move,” Justine whispered frantically. For no help had found them, but something even more frightening than Whatley—and a hell of a lot scarier than the traitor Crane.

“I…I surrender. Please don’t shoot me. Please.” The deputy sobbed the words, pitching his weapon underhanded, but too far away for Justine to get to. Whatley’s, on the other hand…But was the man unconscious after Ross’s attack? Or was he lying still as she was, trying to fly beneath the newcomer’s radar until he knew what was going on?

Ross must be thinking the same thing. Closer to Whatley, he was studying the still form and inching forward on his stomach.

“Don’t worry, Deputy. You won’t be shot,” the newcomer called back, each word brittle ice. “Not if I can help it. On your knees, and hands up. You, too—all of you, on your knees.”

Justine and Ross made eye contact. In the split second before he went limp, she saw a promise in his gaze. A promise that, despite the bullet that had struck him, his “collapse” was part of a plan to save them.

As Larry whimpered and followed the orders, Erik Whatley gurgled, choking on his own blood. The armed man was on him in an instant, bending too quickly for Justine to make out his face. Plucking up Whatley’s weapon, he stuck it in his belt before snatching up the coiled rope and roaring, “You dare try passing off your sloppy work as mine?”

The gurgling stopped abruptly, but the newcomer kicked him to be sure. Repeatedly, for all the good it did, cursing as he did so and jerking on the rope around Justine’s neck.

She grunted in pain. A grunt that had the man adding, “I’ll need you to stand, Sheriff.”

Oh, God. It’s Simon Cordero. The man who’d drugged and raped his “special project,” Laney Thibodeaux, and hanged the band’s other members, then had the nerve to play the generous benefactor at Caleb LeJeune’s funeral. The generous benefactor married to a beauty queen from South America. Was that where he’d heard of scopolamine’s illegal uses?

“Hurt,” Justine said, arm wrapped protectively around her ribs as she chanced a lie. “Can’t get up.”

“A shame,” the bald man answered. “I’ll have to shoot you here.”

As he turned the gun on her, Larry saw his moment, lurched to his feet, and tried to run. In an instant, Cordero swung and sighted, firing a shot that took the deputy down, his shrill shriek echoing beneath the moss-draped canopy. Not a killing shot, though, for Larry sobbed, “My ear, my ear—you shot it off. It’s gone!”

“Quiet,” Cordero ordered. “Don’t ruin this for me with all your bleating, or I swear I’ll shoot off the other one—or maybe your dick, if you’ve got one.”

Though moving hurt like hell, Justine managed to get her feet beneath her. “There’s no reason to hurt anyone. You can still walk away from—”

“You’re wrong there—or simply lying. I want this case closed. An officer already known for her corruption dispensing a little vigilante justice, before unfortunately taking her own life.” Cordero gestured with his gun toward the spot where Ross lay unmoving. “I’m gonna need him up, too.”

Something akin to humor came to his voice as Cordero added, “Because I’ve already seen the elephant. I’ll need something more for my last time.”

Numb with shock, Justine stared down at the still form, her back turned to Cordero. She could no longer be certain Ross’s ruse was an act, considering the dark stain spreading at his shoulder.

But then Ross slitted his eyes open and mouthed the words, I’m still here.

A ribbon of warmth flowed through her, a relief like nothing she’d felt in all her life. I love you, she mouthed back, exaggerating each word so he would understand, before she whipped around, intent on saving at least one of their lives.

Still in his pocket, Ross’s phone vibrated beneath his hip. Had the help he’d called arrived?

But in the dimness of this patch of woods, there was no way Ed Truitt would find them. Not without direction, and certainly not in time.

“You…you killed him, you bastard,” Justine told Cordero, the raw current of her pain convincing. Stepping toward him, she said, “You killed Ross—Laney’s cousin. You care about Laney, don’t you?”

Justine was taking a calculated risk, he knew. A guess based on the fact that Laney had been left alive, though she’d been brought to this spot.

“She looks so much like my wife,” Cordero told her. “The way my Serafina looked when we married.”

“I’m sure she was very beautiful,” Justine answered, “and I’m sure you miss her very much. The bluffs, right? She died on the bluffs beside Lake Whitney.”

When he didn’t answer, she pressed further, angling farther from Ross as she spoke. Risking death to give him some chance of survival.

Tuning out his pain, Ross crawled closer to Whatley’s body and prayed the man had carried something else besides the gun Cordero had taken. Even a pocketknife…

“You two liked to fish there, didn’t you?” Justine asked. “Was that why you chose that place to hang her, because it was special to—”

“No!” Cordero glared at Justine, his gun shaking with his outrage. “She did it herself. Did it to punish me. Because she found out about Laney. She…My Serafina knew all about us—”

“Laney? You were…you were having an affair with—”

“Laney kept saying she needed money to care for Jake, but I knew better. Knew damned well the bitch was nothing but ambitious—perfectly willing to screw me if it would keep me focused on getting a recording contract for the band.”

Ross felt the truth slide into place. Laney had been lying when she’d claimed Kenneth, a platonic friend, as her lover. She’d lied, too, about her pregnancy, unwilling to admit she’d slept with her married agent.

“So she was using you,” Justine prompted, her words a snare to keep the killer talking and ensure that his focus remained fixed on her.

“At first, perhaps, we used each other. But then it turned into something more. So much more.”

Had Laney blocked the traumatic recollection of his attack the night she’d slipped out to meet him, or had the drug or hypothermia wiped clean the slate of that memory as well? Because she clearly didn’t remember that Cordero had almost killed her; she couldn’t, considering how calmly she’d been speaking to the man at Trudy’s.

Justine gave a sympathetic murmur. “You cared for her.”

Ross thought of Cordero’s reaction, so quickly covered, when Laney had said she was going to have a baby. Thought of the intimacy he’d glimpsed and misinterpreted when the man had pushed a curl from Laney’s cheek and called her “little girl.”

“I was certain she felt it, too,” Cordero said, “at least until her friends started dying. Until I helped them find the same exit my Serafina had taken.”

Justine shook her head. “Why? Why would you—”

“We didn’t need them, any of them. She refused to see that they were holding her back, keeping her a regional zydeco act when she had crossover star written all over her. I was going to make her understand that. I was going to win her back. I tried to warn her with the noose at her house, but then—”

“When she wouldn’t listen you fed her the drugs, too; you nearly killed her and you dumped her out here.”

He shook his head. “I…I didn’t know about our baby. My child.”

His deep voice resonated with an unbalanced brand of wonder, a narcissistic awe that had Ross praying Laney’s child would never know its father. And swearing to do whatever it took to keep that from happening.

Close enough to touch Whatley, Ross slipped one bloody hand into the pocket of the dead man’s suit jacket.

“You and you, come this way,” Cordero told Justine and the injured deputy. “As for these two—”

“No!” cried Justine just before three shots rang out in quick succession…

And Ross felt a burning, a punch of pain at his back that made his vision gray out and poured the strength from his body.

“I don’t think they’ll give us any trouble,” Cordero said. “So forget them and get moving. You, too, Deputy. We’ll need to find the right tree before it gets too dark to see what comes next.”

Chapter Thirty-two

The eternal hourglass of existence is turned over again and again—and you with it, speck of dust!

—Friedrich Nietzsche, translated by Josefine Nauckhoff, from “The Heaviest Weight,” The Gay Science

The moon comes on the heels of darkness and pauses to reflect upon the water’s mirrored surface. Better to look there than toward what takes place not far from the shoreline, where shards of nightfall hang stacked between the branches of huge cypress and oak trees.

Yet the chill breeze carries rumors. A loon’s wail laments the terse orders, pleas, and moaning of those invading her domain. A high-pitched cry is cut short…

And a heavy silence follows, broken only by the groan of branches and the creak of rope that hangs beneath.

“Look how beautiful, how perfect,” I whisper as I stare up at her, but the woman doesn’t seem to hear me.

Around her neck, the noose is tight and ready, her bare ankles trembling as she stands nearly on tiptoe on the mossy log, barely keeping her perch…until she loses either the strength or will to maintain her balance.

Death-still, she waits with eyes shut tight, avoiding the sight of the man who would have killed her. The man who dangles, still now, the weakling’s panic exacting its toll within seconds.

Though his frantic fear was far more satisfying than the sheep-like march to execution of drugged victims, I prefer this woman’s silent terror, her stoic struggle to prepare herself for the death she knows is coming.

Her consecration of her own, unwilling sacrifice to me.

Like her, like my sweet Serafina…who sacrificed her barren body so I could at last sire a child of my own flesh.

Awareness has me rock-hard, the scent of the sheriff’s fear making me ache for release. But to destroy the tableau would be to destroy my pleasure, so I take myself in hand and wait for the moment of—

Chapter Thirty-three

You are the music While the music lasts.

—T. S. Eliot, from “The Dry Salvages,” V

Startled by the bang, Justine slipped, and there was such pain. Pain immeasurable, exploding in her neck, her head—she wanted to scream but couldn’t draw breath. Wanted to die but the thrashing agony went on.

“Hurry! Get a knife,” she heard while her body jerked and pulsed around her, every muscle bursting with the need to fight this.

Fight this—why couldn’t it just stop?

Something grasped her legs and bore her higher, alleviated pressure. Body floating, she looked up toward an opening, a light so pure and brilliant, it drew both eye and soul. Gazing through, she saw beauty unimaginable, a meadow of color so vibrant that she understood she’d been living all her life in its weak shadow.

There were voices, too, a great host of voices of those she had known and loved, a growing swell of joy, of welcome. And she wanted to step through the hole torn through her darkness, to go to them and join that radiance.

But she felt warm lips upon hers, a mouth that breathed life—and pain and the memory of all the reasons she must go back—into her empty lungs.

Wednesday, October 28

The awareness of pain returned. At first no more noticeable than background static.

As discomfort deepened, he gasped and opened his eyes to escape.

And felt his hand squeezed. “I thought you’d never wake up.”

“Ju-Justine?” Hoarse and croaking, his own voice was a stranger’s. But even in hell, he would know hers, strained as it sounded.

At first, he saw only a silhouetted figure in the dim room. A woman in a wheelchair. A woman he heard weeping. Her.

“I’m still here,” he whispered. Echoed from the last time he had seen her.

“And I love you,” she repeated, words spoken finally aloud as she rose awkwardly to stand beside his bed. “You saved me, Ross. Do you remember? Two bullets in you, and you found another gun on Whatley. And then you—before my dad got there and cut me down—you shot Cordero and saved my life.”

Her voice splintered, raw with emotion. He saw now that she wore a white robe, a match for the white brace around her neck.

Her eyes swam into focus, the beautiful dark eyes of the woman he lived and breathed for. A woman whose courage taught him to forgive himself for Anne’s death, taught him to embrace life and move on.

“I didn’t…didn’t save your life,” he told her as he pulled her onto his bed. “You saved mine, Justine. You saved ours, together, and the family we’ll make.”

“No, Ross. Not that,” she said. “Not until I finally talk—really talk—to the Texas Rangers. Because you might have saved my life, but it’s up to me to make sure I deserve it. No matter what the cost.”

Epilogue

True peace is not merely the absence of tension: it is the presence of justice.

—Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

Wednesday, February 10

Justine paced the hallway outside the federal grand jury room of the East Texas district courthouse, her arms crossed and her heart lodged in her throat. She needed a few minutes alone, she’d told her attorney. One last opportunity to come to terms with the dangerous tightrope she was about to walk.

Subpoenaed to appear, she had every intention of giving testimony.

Testimony that would name names, including those of her late husband, her major campaign contributors—even District Attorney Herb Stockton and County Judge Ellis Major. Whether or not she ended up indicted or imprisoned for her part, one thing was for certain: The culture of corruption permeating Preston County would be dealt a mortal blow.

Justine’s father caught up to her, touching her elbow as they walked. “However today goes, I want you to know I’m damned proud of you, Chili Pepper. Never prouder in my life.”

Justine stopped and hugged him, laying her head on his shoulder. Her heart expanded with the thought of how far the two of them had come over the past few months, how the lancing of their shared wounds with conversation had allowed the healing of decades-old scar tissue. Had also allowed Justine to come to terms with the very real chance that he might be the one to raise her son.

But not entirely alone, she suspected, for Ross, now as well recovered from his injuries as she was hers, had begun a campaign to work his way into the family. The harder Justine tried to keep him at arm’s length, the more often he showed up to ask for her dad’s advice on some problem with the Mustang’s engine, mostly fabricated, she suspected, or to bring by his cousin Trudy’s little girls to draw Noah out, bit by bit, as they all played with his puppy.

Every time she saw Ross, that big man laughing with those little children, Justine ached to give herself over to him, mind and body, heart and soul. And every time, she held herself at a little more of a remove, thinking how unfair it would be to bind him to a woman who could be locked up for at least a decade.

But it hurt—it hurt so damned much to have him so close while she couldn’t touch him. And on today of all days, she’d been unable to hold up beneath the strain.

She sighed, worried over how she’d handled things. “Do you think I hurt Ross, asking him to stay home?”

Her dad pulled back. “The truth? Yes. I think you made him feel like Noah, being left with Gwen so he wouldn’t get upset or underfoot.”

“It’s not that. It’s just…I couldn’t bear to…” To look at what I stand to lose. Shaking her head, she added, “I couldn’t bear it, that’s all.”

“You don’t think he’s earned the right to see you through this?”

“He has enough on his plate already. His job, his family, Laney.” Well into the second trimester of her pregnancy—which, thank God, appeared normal in spite of the drug she had been given—Ross’s cousin was only now beginning to deal with what had happened and cope with her own role in the tragedy. Finally in counseling, she’d decided to wait till after the baby’s birth to resume singing—and had turned down an offer that would have exploited her friends’ murders.

If it’s really meant to be, if I really have the talent, she’d said, success will still be there after I learn how to be a mother, and a better person, too.

Ross had been proud of that decision, and with good reason. Laney had been forced to grow up hard and fast, but with her family’s loving support, Justine thought the younger woman would come out of this stronger and better equipped to handle whatever life threw her way.

“You’ve still got it wrong.” Justine’s father glanced over her shoulder, toward the sound of approaching footsteps. “That man’s never seen you as a burden.”

“No, I don’t,” came Ross’s voice behind her as his big hand, warm and reassuring, covered her nape. Turning her to face him, he looked directly into her eyes. “I see you as my reward, Justine. No matter what happens. No matter how long it takes.”

She stared back at him, looking so steady and confident and handsome in his dark suit. And in the kiss that followed, she felt the truth of his promise unfolding, felt the dawning of a union strong enough to navigate the darkest waters…if she only dared embrace it.

More footsteps, and a throat cleared. “Sheriff Wofford? Justine?”

Reluctantly, she turned from Ross to face her attorney, Dan Henderson, who exchanged a somber look with his former college roommate before saying, “It’s time to go inside now. The grand jury’s ready for you. I know what you said, Justine. I know you need this to be over. But please…You’ve already turned over the evidence, so I’m begging you, remember what I told you when you’re in there.”

Dark haired and strikingly handsome in his own way, the attorney flashed five fingers, imploring her to invoke her Fifth Amendment right against self incrimination. But Justine knew her testimony was the only chance for true justice in her county, the only chance to pull up a deeply entrenched evil by its roots.

Ross cupped her face with his hand and repeated the words, “No matter what, Justine,” before she turned away and walked into the grand jury room—not even her attorney was allowed to follow—to at long last learn her fate.

“Do you think,” Ross asked Dan for at least the tenth time in the last two hours, “do you think there’s any chance—any chance at all she listened to you?”

His old friend frowned. “I wish I could tell you I did. But she’s a stubborn woman, and the fact that she hasn’t come out once to consult with me about any of their questions, something I’ve told her repeatedly she has a right to do, isn’t a good sign.”

“She’s punishing herself,” Ross said. “I almost think she wants to go to prison for keeping silent as long as she did.”

Ed Truitt, who’d been listening, shook his head. “She’s done beating herself up like that. We made a pact, my girl and me. Do what’s right in the now instead of getting stuck in the past.”

In his brown eyes, Ross saw the old man’s fierce pride, a pride he shared. But he knew Justine’s father was terrified, as scared as he was that she would be taken from everything she loved, everyone who loved her, possibly for years.

The grand jury room door opened, and a bored-looking bailiff told them, “You all can go inside now. Grand jury and the judge and prosecutor’ve cleared out.”

All three men hurried inside, where they found Justine sitting alone at the end of the front row of dark wooden benches, which reminded Ross of church pews in a legal sanctuary. Her head was bent, and Ross—out-pacing the others with his long strides—soon saw that her eyes were closed, too, as if she sat in prayer.

Was she praying for deliverance from the coming federal trial?

Ross glanced at the other two and gestured to them to stay back. Justine’s father clenched his jaw, impatience rolling off him in waves, but Dan touched his elbow and said quietly, “We’ve been waiting this long. We can give them a few minutes.”

Kneeling beside Justine, Ross took her hand and kissed it. “I’m in this for the long haul. I’ll wait as long as it takes, help you pay for Dan’s services through the trial—a whole legal team if that’s what we need. I’ll be there for your dad and Noah, and I’ll—”

Her eyes flashed open, the lashes clumped with moisture. And she smiled at him, leaning forward to throw her arms around his neck and kiss him. A kiss that tasted of pure joy, not grief or worry.

A kiss that told him their time would come sooner and not later.

That their forever could begin this very day.

Acknowledgments

A number of people have been instrumental in bringing Touch of Evil to fruition.

First of all, I’d like to thank my husband, Mike, who helps out with the travel and research and is always there to listen as I hash out a thorny plot snarl. To fellow authors, critique partners, and beta-readers Barbara Sissel, Joni Rodgers, T. J. Bennett, Wanda Dionne, Patricia Kay, and Jo Anne Banker, I offer my sincerest gratitude.

Thanks are also in order to my talented agent, Karen Solem, and her fellow agent, Jennifer Schober, at Spencerhill Associates, for all their efforts on my behalf, along with the entire team at Dorchester Publishing, from Senior Editor Alicia Condon to Marketing Director Erin Galloway to everyone in the sales and art departments.

Dr. Kimberly Chambers, emergency physician at Memorial Hermann Hospital in Houston, Texas, kindly answered a number of my medical questions. Thanks for the assistance, and any errors are my own.

Thanks, too, to Marvin Brown, who won characternaming rights on behalf of his lovely wife, Debbie, both of Windsor Lakes in The Woodlands, with a donation to the Houston 100 Club, benefiting first responders and their families.

Last but not least, I’d like to express my appreciation to poet Carl Sandburg for the inspiration.

One final note for readers: Touch of Evil’s Justine Wofford and Ross Bollinger first appear in Beneath Bone Lake. Although each book stands alone, readers may enjoy checking out the earlier title, where these two characters first shanghaied my imagination.

RAVE REVIEWS FOR COLLEEN THOMPSON!

BENEATH BONE LAKE

“Gripping and engaging from the very first page, Thompson’s novel demonstrates why she’s a master of suspense and mystery. The author weaves a well-plotted tale of corruption, horror, violence and the enduring love formed by an impenetrable bond of trust.”

—RT Book Reviews

“Colleen Thompson and her mystery killer will keep you enthralled as you enjoy her meticulous writing…Beneath Bone Lake will keep you turning the pages…Fast-paced action and plenty of surprises make this a story well worth your time.”

—Romance Reviews Today

TRIPLE EXPOSURE

“Thompson packs this well-paced thriller full of twists and the local color of a small Texas town…The climax will surprise even the most jaded of suspense readers.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Thompson leads readers on a twisted course through the Texas desert, only to stand the plot on its head again in the finale.”

—RT Book Reviews

THE SALT MAIDEN

“Poetic use of language, intricate plotting and a wealth of fascinating details make Thompson’s latest novel a masterful work of suspense. Readers will come for the action and stay for the three-dimensional characters and well-crafted narrative. This is a fabulous read!”

—RT Book Reviews (Top Pick)

“An excellent thriller with a touch of romance. I could not bring myself to set the book down. I simply HAD to know what would happen next. From the beginning it is non-stop action, drama, and mystery. Fans of Tess Gerritsen, Tami Hoag, and Sandra Brown will adore this tale. Phenomenal!”

—Huntress Reviews

HEAD ON

“Well written with realistic and appealing characters, Head On is a mesmerizing story that keeps readers guessing.”

—Romance Reviews Today

“Thompson’s novel is filled with realistic dialogue, compelling narrative and believable conflict.”

—RT Book Reviews

HEAT LIGHTNING

“Thompson has crafted a top-notch, thrilling romantic suspense.”

—New York Times bestselling author Allison Brennan

“This nicely complicated tale has plenty of edge-of-your-seat suspense.”

—RT Book Reviews

THE DEADLIEST DENIAL

“Captivating…Thompson, a RITA finalist, is skilled at building suspense.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Thompson’s style is gritty, and that works well with her flawed and driven characters…High family drama mixes with deadly suspense.”

—RT Book Reviews

FADE THE HEAT

“RITA finalist Thompson takes the reader on a roller-coaster ride full of surprising twists and turns in this exceptional novel of romantic suspense.”

—Publishers Weekly (Starred Review)

“The precise details of Thompson’s novel give it a rich, edgy texture that’s enthralling…For keen characters, emotional richness and a satisfying story that doesn’t fade away, read Thompson’s latest.”

—RT Book Reviews

FATAL ERROR

“Fast-paced, chilling, and sexy…[with] chemistry that shimmers.”

—Library Journal

“Thompson has written a first-class work of romantic suspense.”

—Booklist

Other books by Colleen Thompson:

BENEATH BONE LAKE

TRIPLE EXPOSURE

THE SALT MAIDEN

HEAD ON

HEAT LIGHTNING

THE DEADLIEST DENIAL

FADE THE HEAT

FATAL ERROR

Copyright

LOVE SPELL®

March 2010

Published by

Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
200 Madison Avenue
New York, NY 10016

Copyright © 2010 by Colleen Thompson

Material from Learning the Tarot: A Tarot Book for Beginners copyright © 1998 by Joan Bunning excerpted with permission of Red Wheeler/Weiser LLC, www.redwheelerweiser.com.

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