His gaze dipped to his chest before rising back to my face. “I’m carryin’ today, but we can’t count on me to save us. With these crutches and my lack of balance…if things get hairy, I need you to do as I say. Can I count on that?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“Okay. Let’s go in.”

We walked across the parking lot. I could tell Marco was feeling better by his faster gait with the crutches, but it wouldn’t be smart of me to forget how quickly he’d lost strength yesterday. The same thing could happen today if we weren’t careful. I held the front door open for him, the tinkle of the bell on the door announcing our presence.

Mobley appeared in the long hall to the back within moments, popping through a door. While I’d previously guessed him to be in his late fifties based on the gray in his dark hair, he looked much older now. His eyes were sunken and bracketed by deep wrinkles, and although he was dressed in an immaculate dark suit and pale blue tie, his posture was slumped. The Dwight incident had aged him.

“Carly Moore,” he said in a friendly tone as he approached, but I sensed hesitation. “I hope bad news hasn’t brought you to my door.”

“Oh, no,” I said, forcing cheerfulness into my voice. “Nothing like that. I happened to be in Ewing and decided to stop by and ask about the guest book for Seth’s funeral. Hank and I want to send thank you notes to everyone who attended, but we can’t find the book.”

“Hmm.” He tilted his head to the side, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening as his face screwed into a look of concentration. Something must have dropped into place because he finally straightened and said, “I’m fairly certain we gave it to the sister of the minister. I think her name was Paisley?”

“Miss Patsy,” I said with a smile. “I’ll check with her. Thank you.”

“No problem,” he said, his eyes turning wary. “But you could have saved yourself a trip and called.”

“And that’s exactly what she wanted to do,” Marco said, pinning his crutch under his armpit as he reached out and put his hand on my arm. “But you know us men. I wanted to take the more direct approach.” He dropped his hand. “Go straight to the source.”

“There’s something to be said for frankness, Deputy Roland.”

“You know who I am?” Marco asked. He’d kept his tone neutral, but I could feel the tension in his body.

“How could I not?” Mobley asked. “Your face was all over the newspapers. They called you a hero shot down in the line of duty.” He glanced between us. “Are you together now?”

It seemed like an odd question. What difference could it possibly make? Then again, Marco seemed to be purposefully creating that impression. I suspected he wanted to discourage Mobley and whoever he was working with from messing with me. Even in a place like Hensen County, there was still some protection to be had from being a cop, or being with a cop.

Marco leaned closer and snagged my hand, lacing our fingers. “There’s something about trauma that draws people together.”

Mobley’s gaze dropped to our linked hands, then darted back up to our faces, completely devoid of emotion. “We find comfort where we can, especially after a tragedy. I tell my clients that there’s no one-size-fits-all approach to grief, so if they find someone soon after the death of a spouse, it means no disloyalty to their lost loved one.” He took a step back. “If you’ll excuse me, I have something I need to attend to.”

Marco dropped my hand and took a step forward. “On a Sunday morning? I don’t envy your workin’ hours, Mr. Mobley.”

“Well, the dead don’t sleep,” Mobley said with a short laugh.

“Some people would say they sleep eternally,” Marco said.

Mobley blinked, though it looked more like a flinch, then took another step back. “Yeah. I guess so. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

He turned and started walking back down the hall.

I shot Marco a frustrated glance. We hadn’t gotten a single piece of information. Why was he just letting Mobley walk away?

Marco had already spun around, however, and he flicked his eyes toward the front door.

He’d insisted I follow his lead, and I’d agreed, so I gritted my teeth and walked out, holding the door open for him. I waited until we were in the car to let loose.

“What the hell, Marco? Why didn’t you ask him about Charlie?”

“Because it’s plain as day that man is guilty of something, and we’re gonna tail him.” He started the car and steered us out of the parking lot. “Carly,” he said when he saw I wasn’t appeased. “We weren’t gonna get a confession out of him.”

“We could have tried!”

“No,” he said, turning toward downtown Ewing. “This is better. We made him nervous, which means he thinks we know something about him. Mark my words, he’s gonna run scared like a chicken from a fox.” He shot me a glance. “And we’re gonna follow him.”

Once we were out of sight of the funeral home, he turned left onto a side street.

“What does he think we know?” I asked. “He only landed on our radar because Ruth remembered seeing Charlie with Dwight.”

“That’s the question of the year. Like I said, I always suspected he was more involved in the drug smuggling than the department determined. But we didn’t press him for information, and it seems odd that he’d freak out at just the sight of us together. Which leads me to believe Charlie does work for Mobley, and they know we’ve been looking into Lula’s and Greta’s disappearances.” He turned again, heading down a residential street that would lead him back toward the funeral home.

I released a sharp gasp. “You think Mobley has something to do with their disappearances?”

“Maybe.” He snuck a glance at me before returning his attention to the road. “What if those packages Lula was delivering were for Mobley?”

“Why would she do that?” A sick, slimy feeling washed through my insides. “Oh. No.”

“What?” Marco asked in a sharp tone.

I shifted in the seat to face him. “Remember the other boyfriend? Lula was sleeping with an older man.” I paused and choked out, “A man of great importance.”

His face twisted in disgust. “You think Mobley’s a man of great importance?” he asked in disbelief.

“God, no. I don’t, but someone like Lula might. He wears a suit. Owns a business. Is considered respectable. Drives a Lexus.”

“Shit.” He ran a hand over his head. “That is so disturbing I might have to bleach out my brain. How old do you think that fucker is?”

“I don’t know. Maybe early to late sixties?”

Marco shuddered. “Too old to be a new dad.” His eyes widened. “Too in need of the community’s respect to knock up someone other than his wife.”

“You think he took Lula because he doesn’t want to be a father?”

“That’s been one of our working theories, so it’s not outside the realm of possibility.”

“But it’s Pete Mobley,” I protested. “Is he capable of hurting her?”