When she smiled, Shaw shot her one back. “Good to see you smiling. I heard you crying earlier. From in there.” He indicated the interrogation room. “Sounded rough.”

Her lower lip began to tremble and misery settled over her whole being again.

“Look, kid,” he said, speaking softly, “don’t let these assholes get to you. The deputy said your folks’ll be here soon. They’ll get you out. Whatever it was you did—”

“I didn’t do anything!”

Shaw just looked at her, knowing she desperately wanted to tell what had happened, explain it, clarify it, justify it, whatever. So he gave her the opportunity by saying nothing.

“I mean…” She licked her lips. “I went to this place where I shouldn’t have gone. A bar? My friend and me had fake IDs.” Then, speaking in a confidential undertone, in stops and starts, she told basically the same story her friend had told Morrow.

By the time she got to the part about leaving the bar, she was crying again in great sobs that made her choke, because she was trying to be quiet about it.

“Hey, shh,” Shaw said. “Shh. Don’t be so hard on yourself. Whatever happened, I don’t think it was your fault.”

“But it was. My friend told me I shouldn’t leave with a stranger.”

“She figured him for a loser, and sounds to me like she was right.”

“But I…I…I didn’t listen. I’d had so much to drink. And he told me I was hot, and that he’d never got that…that…aroused just by kissing.” She ducked her head, asking softly, “You know what I mean?”

He frowned guiltily. “Yeah, us guys say shit like that when we want to get on a girl. Sometimes we mean it, though. Maybe he did.”

“I don’t think so. Because as soon as he pulled off the road and parked the truck…”

The words came tumbling out of her along with quarts of tears. It took every ounce of self-discipline Shaw had to remain sitting there, pretending to be nothing more than a sounding board with no vested interest whatsoever in who’d killed Royce Sherman.

The longer she talked, the more emotional she became. When she got to the nitty-gritty and described the fatal shooting, Shaw thought his heart was going to beat itself out of his chest.

“I couldn’t believe it,” she said around a watery gulp. “But I knew he was dead.” She wiped her nose on her sleeve. “I was so scared. Petrified, you know?”

Shaw nodded.

“I just sat there, frozen. I don’t even know for how long. When I came to my senses, I panicked. I guess I should’ve called the cops, but I knew they’d tell my daddy, and he’d skin me and hang me out to dry.

“So I called my friend and told her to come get me. I ran to the main road and hid in the bushes to wait for her. And all the time, I was so scared he’d come back and kill me, too. The wages of sin is death. That’s what I was thinking.”

She was crying so hard Shaw feared her breastbone would crack.

“I’m still scared he’ll track me down. That’s why I didn’t want to tell anybody. They’ll put it on the news. He’ll find out my name. Then he’ll find me.”

Shaw was like a racehorse waiting for the bell, but he kept himself slouched in the chair and shrugged with unconcern. “You said you didn’t see him.”

“I didn’t. But he might think I did. And I’m afraid he’ll—”

At that moment, the double doors at the end of the corridor burst open and a middle-aged couple came barreling through.

The girl shrieked and collapsed upon herself in the chair.

The man, obviously the wrathful preacher, was dressed in work clothes and heavy boots. Linda’s mother had an apron still tied around the waist of her flowered dress. Several deputies were right behind them, trying to stop the preacher’s march down the hallway. The two deputies who’d been in the interrogation room with Linda emerged from it, assessed the situation, and quickly hustled her back into the room.

In the midst of the uproar, Morrow went unnoticed as he unlocked Shaw’s handcuffs. They went back into his office where Wiley and Hickam were waiting.

Shaw pushed off the hood and removed the sunglassses. “How much did you hear?”

“Most,” Wiley said.

Morrow said, “He seduced her to go with him. Pulled off the side of the road to—”

“—get blown by a just-turned sixteen-year-old,” Shaw said. “A shot to the head was almost better than he deserved.”

Wiley said, “A vehicle pulled up behind them. Royce Sherman thought it was the police. He zipped up. She righted herself.”

Shaw took it from there. “The perp left the headlights on, so they couldn’t tell what kind of car he was driving or who he was as he approached. She claims she never saw his face.”

Wiley said, “That’s about the time she started crying so hard, we couldn’t understand anything else she said.”

“What she said,” Shaw told them, “was that she’s scared to death that the killer will come after her.”

“But she can’t ID him.”

“Not by his looks.” Shaw paused for effect. “But she might by his voice.”

Nobody said anything for several seconds, then Wiley fell back a step. “Oh, Christ.”

“Yeah,” Shaw said grimly. “The killer spoke a few words to Royce before he shot him. Linda’s not sure what he said because he talked funny. Like her uncle Clive. Who has this black thing he holds up to his voice box.”

Chapter 30

Jordie pressed the contraband cell phone against her ear and sat down on the edge of the bed. Guiltily, she glanced toward the connecting door to the living area of the suite and spoke in a hushed voice. “Josh? How—”

“Are you watching TV? Have you heard?”

“What? Heard what? How did you know I’d get this phone?”

“I didn’t. Just hoped. You’re at Extravaganza now?”

“No. The FBI has me sequestered in a hotel. But they allowed some mail to be brought—”

“Turn on the TV.”

“Josh, where are you? Are you all right?”

“Turn on the TV! If you’re in a hotel, you have a TV. Turn it on.”

“Why?”

He puffed a sound of impatience tinged with panic. “Turn. On. The. TV.”

She reached for the remote on the nightstand. “All right. It’s on.”

He told her the channel to tune in. As she navigated the aggravating menus inherent to hotel televisions, she said, “I’ve been so worried, Josh. You shouldn’t have run away. Are you all right?”

“No, I’m not all right. Especially not after this.”

“After what?”

“He’s gonna kill me!”

“Who?”

“Who do you think?” he asked, his voice going shrill.

She recognized the symptoms. He was in full-blown panic mode.

“Josh, listen, please. You are in terrible trouble.”

“Well no shit, Sherlock.”

She rolled her lips inward to contain a retort. “I’ll help you. You know I will. But you must calm down and—”