Marco put everything back into the box with the exception of the hotel receipt. “Would you mind if I hold onto this?”

“You can keep the whole box for all I care,” Hilde said. “It ain’t like she’s comin’ back to get it.” Her voice cracked, the first sign that she was upset. “I guess I could ask her momma and daddy if they want it, but it’s just a box of paper. Can’t see why they’d care.”

“Thank you,” Marco said. “The receipt is all we need for now. But I’d appreciate it if you’d let me take a picture of the photo.”

“Of course,” she said with a wave of her hand. “You can take it if you like. Maybe Wyatt wants it. I’ll probably just end up throwing it away. I can’t imagine her folks will want all that junk.”

I was pretty sure Wyatt wouldn’t want it either, so I said, “I think this will do for now.”

Marco took the picture out of the frame and set it on the bed, then snapped several photos before tucking it back into the frame.

“Will you let me know if you find anything?” Hilde asked.

“Of course,” Marco said, getting to his feet and putting the box back on the shelf. “Thank you for answering our questions. If you think of anything else, could you call and leave a message?” He closed the door, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card to hand to her. “My personal number is written on the back.”

She took it and looked it over, then nodded. When she glanced back up, her eyes were full of tears. “Heather had her flaws, but she didn’t deserve to be killed and buried like that. I hope you find the monster who did this.”

“We’re definitely going to try,” I said.

Marco and I walked outside and stopped in front of my car.

“We need to figure out who this second boyfriend was,” Marco said.

“I wonder if Wyatt has any idea.”

Marco gave me a dry look. “Do you really think he’d tell you? He isn’t what you’d call an open book.”

“Maybe he’ll talk with an arrest warrant breathing down his neck.”

He pushed out a sigh. “Do you know where to find him?”

“I do, but I have an appointment with Bingham at ten.” It was on the edge of my tongue to tell him that Wyatt was probably there too, but I didn’t want to put him in a sticky position. He’d already bent and flat-out broken plenty of rules to help out.

“Do you really think that’s the best use of our time?” he asked. “Maybe we should focus on finding Dick Stinnett.”

“I considered it,” I said, “but I suspect that Bingham has useful information. You know he has it out for Bart. It stands to reason he might have been keeping tabs on Wyatt.”

“That’s not creepy as shit,” Marco groused.

I shrugged. “You can’t tell me you’re surprised.”

Rather than respond, he looked down the road.

“So I’ll talk to Bingham. Then we’ll head to Ewing.” If I didn’t change my mind and go to work for an hour or so. I hated to just throw Ginger and Molly in the deep end. But I’d decide after I talked to Bingham. “Don’t forget you need to wait off Bingham’s property.”

“I don’t have to do that now,” he said. “Since I’m officially helpin’ you.”

I shook my head. “You and I both know I have to do this alone.”

The expression on his face said he wasn’t any too happy about it, but he nodded after a moment. I hopped in my car and headed back to the highway, leaving Marco to follow.

He pulled onto the side of the road, and I left him behind as I made the turn onto Bingham’s property and drove toward the white bungalow house with peeling paint that sat in front of a giant metal building surrounded by cars in varying states of rust decay. I knew the large building housed the body shop that he also used as a chop shop.

I parked out front, noticing that Wyatt’s truck wasn’t anywhere to be seen, not that I’d expected him to be so obvious. I hoped that meant he’d hidden it well and not that he wasn’t here.

The front door of the house opened as I got out of my car, Bingham filling the doorway.

“You know what I’ve figured out about you, Carly Moore?” he asked with a sly grin as he shut the door behind him. “You’re a shit stirrer.”

My eyes widened and I stopped in place.

He took a couple of steps toward me across the covered porch. “You’ve been stirring up shit in this town practically since you crossed the city limits, and you’re still at it.”

I held up my hands, but I kept my back straight. “I’m not trying to cause you any trouble, Bingham, and I’m sure not here to accuse you of anything.”

“Yet here you are, darkening my doorstep, days after they found Heather.”

“I already told you that I know you’re not stupid enough to have left a body out there. You didn’t kill her.” I took a step closer. “But I think you might know something about who did.”

His eyes hardened. “So you think I’m a snitch?”

Dammit, this wasn’t going as I’d hoped. He had his dander up.

“No, Bingham, I think you’re an intelligent man who pays attention to the world around him.”

His stance suggested I hadn’t buttered him up much.

“Come on, Bingham. We both know that Wyatt didn’t kill Heather, and while I’m not insinuating that you know who did, you might be able to point me in the right direction so I can figure it out.”

His jaw relaxed slightly, and he leaned a shoulder against a pillar next to the top of the steps. “And why would I do that?”

“Because I can’t help thinking Bart Drummond played a part in this, and it would be in your best interest to help me prove it.” I nodded to the front door. “You gonna invite me in?”

His hard look was back. “I told you last time you showed up at my front door that I don’t conduct business in my house.”

And I’d assumed it was just an excuse to keep me out. “Then can we sit down instead of standing across from each other like we’re about to have a showdown at noon?”

He cracked a grin and backed up, taking a seat in a wicker chair that looked like it would collapse under his weight. I climbed the steps and sat in the chair next to him.

“So I know you dated Heather during one of her breakups with Wyatt.”

He burst out laughing. “You don’t waste time with small talk.”

“You’re a busy man. I figured you would appreciate skipping the small talk.”

He nodded. “True enough.” Releasing a sigh, he sat back in his chair. “Sayin’ I dated her would be generous. Sayin’ I fucked her would be more accurate.”

I resisted the urge to cringe at his crassness. “So it was a hookup situation.”

“If that makes it more palatable for you. Sure.”

“How long did it last?”

“A month or so? We hooked up a couple of times a week. She had an itch and I was happy to scratch it.”

I had to be careful with my next question. “Did you ever get the impression she had ulterior motives for being with you?”