“I don’t.”

“No?” He tilted his head in the direction of the floral arrangements lined up along the windowsill. “Mark? You and he shared an apartment on West 110th Street when you were both attending Columbia. He’s currently a successful architect in his native Baltimore. He’s gay. He’s happily married. He and his partner just adopted their second child.”

Her surprise was such that she barely had enough voice to ask, “How did you know all that?”

“If you lied to me about something as harmless as a college pal, you’ll lie to me about a near-murder and what you saw and heard and sensed while it was being committed, and what went down afterward.

“And the investigators must know that you’re leaving out chunks of information or they wouldn’t be requiring a third go-round with Texas Rangers. Now what are you omitting or glossing over, Kerra?”

“Nothing. And besides, I was ordered not to discuss the case while it’s an ongoing investigation.”

“With anybody or with me in particular?”

“With anybody.”

“Then we’ve got no problem, because we’ve already established that I’m not just anybody.”

He seemed prepared to lunge from his chair and wring answers out of her. But he must have sensed her apprehension, because he backed down, relaxed his shoulders, and, in a quieter tone asked, “How many were there?”

She determined that he wasn’t going to leave until she gave him something. She might just as well get it over with. She looked down at her hands in her lap, clasped together so tightly her fingers had turned bone white. “Two. I’m almost certain.”

“Did they say anything?”

“Only that one mocking question.”

“‘How do you like being dead so far?’ That’s all you heard anyone say?”

She nodded.

“You didn’t see them?”

She shook her head.

“Kerra?”

Looking across at him, she said, “No.”

“Any part of them? Clothing? Footwear?”

“No. Nothing. I told you that last night.”

“You also told me that Mark was a friend with benefits, when I know damn well that he ain’t fucking you.”

She shook back her hair, took a deep breath, and looked him straight in the eye. “I didn’t see the man or men who shot The Major. I left him alone in the living room. I was in the bathroom when I heard the gunshot.”

“Single gunshot?”

“Yes. My first thought was that one of his hunting rifles had misfired.”

“Why did you think that?”

“We’d been talking about hunting. Remember, I told you that. He’d opened the gun case to show me a rifle your mother had given him.”

“Her last Christmas gift to him.”

“Yes. I thought perhaps it had accidentally discharged as he was putting it away. But the shot hadn’t sounded as loud as a rifle. More of a pop. All this went through my mind in a millisecond.

“Then I heard the ‘so far’ question and understood that there hadn’t been an accident. I thought The Major had been killed and that if I was discovered, I’d be killed, too.”

At the end of that sentence, her courage ran out. She crossed her arms over her middle and hugged her elbows. “They were banging on the door, trying to break the latch. I wanted to live. There was only one way out. I took it. That’s what I told the detectives, and it’s the truth.” The truth minus the part about someone trying to open the door before the gunshot. Instinct told her to keep that to herself.

As though knowing she was withholding something, Trapper continued to stare at her. But after a long moment, some of the tension eased out of him. “Why’s your crew hanging around?”

“We touched on that. Lodal is crawling with media.”

He said nothing, just tapped his chin with his clasped hands.

She didn’t stand up long against his unflinching stare. He’d find out soon enough anyway. “I’ve been approached to describe those last few minutes I spent alone with The Major.”

“You mean on TV?”

“Yes. The network wants the anchor to interview me on the evening news.”

“In New York?”

“No, from here. Via satellite. Preferably live.”

“Are you going to do it?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“What would decide you?”

“For or against?”

“You have to ask?”

He was taking to the idea exactly as she had predicted he would. With resistance. “I’m sensitive to how you might feel about it. That’s the main reason I’m hesitant to do it.”

“Oh. Your hesitancy has everything to do with my feelings and nothing to do with the fact that you’re a material witness—the only one—to the attempted assassination of a public figure.”

“I’m also a newswoman.”

“Ah.”

“Yes, ah! I have a career, Trapper. This is what I do.”

Now that she’d had hours to consider it, she acknowledged that Gracie’s points were valid. Her career could be irreparably damaged if she refused. Since their conversation this morning, Gracie had called twice to ask if she’d thought it over and come to a more sensible decision. “But no pressure,” the producer had quipped.

Now Trapper was applying pressure from the opposing side. Challenging him, she said, “Why are you so against it?”

“Common sense. It’s a bad idea. Have you discussed it with Sheriff Addison or anyone investigating the case?”

“Not yet. It’s only been proposed. I haven’t committed.”

“If you do it, you should be committed. Going on TV and talking about the minutes leading up to the shooting?” He shook his head in a way that said she was nuts. “I don’t think it’s sunk in with you the danger you’re in, the threat you pose, the—”

She held up her hand to stop him from feeding her fear, which his parting words the night before had engendered, which his presence here now reinforced. “I don’t pose a threat to anybody. If I do the interview I’ll underscore that I couldn’t identify the guilty parties because I didn’t see them. That’ll be the end of it.”

“You think so?”

“Yes. I don’t know what more I can say.”

“Say you’ve told me everything.”

“I’ve told you everything.” She enunciated each word, gave them time to sink in, then gestured toward the door. “Now, I’ve answered your questions, which you have no authority to be asking. I’m tired. Please leave.”

“All right. Just one more question and I’ll go.”

His capitulation had been too easily won, and her suspicion must have showed, because he added, “I promise.”

“What’s the question?”

He used the padded armrests to push himself out of the chair and came toward her, not stopping until she could feel the soft denim of his jeans against her bare legs draping the side of the bed. Her eyes tracked up the row of pearl snaps on his shirt, along his throat, to his face. His expression was inscrutable.

She repeated, “What’s the question?”

He placed his bent index finger beneath her chin and stroked the bruise there, following it up over her jaw until his knuckle rested against the corner of her lips where the delicate skin was abraded. “Does that hurt?”

“A little.”

He lifted his hand to his mouth and kissed the pad of his thumb with slightly parted lips, then brushed it against the injured spot. The unexpected touch was tender and sweet. Yet the thrill it elicited low and deep was purely erotic.

Even after removing his thumb, he continued to stare at the spot his stroking had left damp. Then he reached into his jacket and removed something from the breast pocket. “I believe you’re the rightful owner. You were wearing it during the interview.” He lifted her hand and dropped the object into her palm.

Dumbfounded, Kerra was held captive by his eyes. Then without another word, he turned and went to the door. Kerra continued to watch him until it closed behind him.