“He looks familiar,” I said. “And I’m sure I’ve seen him in the bar. Definitely on Monday night.”

“Any other times?” he asked.

I looked up at him. “I’ll think it over and give you an answer during our Q & A.”

I realized we hadn’t determined a time or place, but I had no doubt he’d get in touch.

A slow smile spread across his face. This had become a game to him, and he was enjoying every bit of it.

“Is it one of your guys?” Hank asked.

“Yep,” Bingham confirmed, then motioned to his men. “Cecil Abrams.”

His men surged forward, and the three of them picked up the man—two at his shoulders, the other at his feet—and started to lift him.

“Hold on there,” I said, standing to the side. “Part of your job is cleanup, which means you can’t be spreading DNA all over Hank’s yard. Wrap him up before you carry him off.”

“She’s right,” Hank said. “You clean up the yard. We’ll take care of the porch.”

“You heard ’em,” Bingham said. “Get a tarp. Besides, you don’t want to dirty up the back of your truck, Gates.”

The men dropped the body with a sick thud, and I recoiled in horror. The guy who had brought over the flashlight walked back to the dented truck. A short while later, he returned with the tarp, and they made quick work of wrapping up the body and stowing it in the back of the truck.

“Now the ground,” I said when they opened the truck doors, looking like they were about to load up on their trucks. Even in the dark I could see where Cecil had bled onto the dirt path that led from the drive to the front porch. Cleanup would entail a whole lot more work than just removing the body.

“Excuse me?” Bingham said, sounding incredulous.

“There’s blood on the ground. Clean it up.” He started to advance toward me, but I lifted my shotgun and pointed it at him. “You agreed to clean up the outside, Mr. Bingham. You’re not finished yet.”

“What the hell do you expect me to do?”

“Get rid of the blood.”

One of Bingham’s men strode toward me. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

Hank pointed his weapon at the man. “You heard ’er. Clean up the blood. There’s a couple of shovels in the garage you can use, but don’t be takin’ any of my buckets. If you’ve got nothin’ to put it in, use a trash bag.”

Bingham stared at me for a long second, then said, his face expressionless, “You heard the lady. Clean up the blood.”

I lowered my weapon.

The men shot angry, deadly looks in my direction as they took off toward Hank’s detached garage, which sat about twenty feet to the left of the house. It took them about a minute to open the overhead door and find a couple of shovels and several trash bags. They had to squeeze in around a car that was parked in the middle of the two-car garage, its hood open.

Gates shone his flashlight beam on the ground and the other two men dug up the dark-stained, hard-packed earth that made up the path leading from the porch toward the gravel drive. The blood-soaked soil went into trash bags.

Bingham watched me the entire time, his narrow gaze studying me with only occasional glances toward his men to assess their progress.

“I’m starting to wonder if it wasn’t a case of mistaken identity after all, Ms. Moore.”

“Why?” I asked in a sassy tone to cover my fear. “Because I’ve watched a few episodes of Law and Order? Please. I’d be plain stupid to let you leave evidence behind, and I can assure you, Mr. Bingham, that I’m not stupid.”

He tilted his head, his eyes lighting up. “No. You most definitely aren’t.”

“We got it all,” one of the men said. “Let’s get.”

A smile spread across Bingham’s face. “Nope. We don’t go until Ms. Moore gives us our leave.”

I cast a glance at Hank, who gave me a quick nod, telling me it was my decision. Gates panned his flashlight over the dug-up path, and I drifted closer for a better look. The dirt would need to be smoothed over and packed down to escape notice, but we could handle that ourselves. I’d just wanted most of the blood evidence gone. After a quick survey, I looked Bingham in the eye and said, “It’s far from thorough, but it will do.”

Bingham burst out laughing. When he settled a bit, he tipped an imaginary hat to me. “I’m very much lookin’ forward to our tête-à-tête later.”

On his signal, he and his men got into their trucks. They backed up in the yard and took off down the mountain.

I stood on the porch and watched them drive away, taking several deep breaths as I tried to settle my nerves.

“You okay?” Hank asked.

I spun around to face him, realizing again that he’d pushed himself way too far. “We need to get you back to bed.”

“The hell we do. We ain’t done yet.”

“I can do it myself, Hank. You can’t be scrubbing the porch.” I didn’t see much blood splatter, but it would be enough to incriminate us.

“No, but I might think of things you wouldn’t. The bleach is in the house. We need to clean them shovels before we put ’em away.”

I nodded. He was right.

“That was some smooth thinkin’, girl,” he said. “If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought you’d done this before.”

I slowly shook my head, starting to tremble. “No. I’m just good at thinking on my feet. That’s what made me a good teacher.”

“You were a teacher?” he asked, surprised.

Shit. I gave him a weak smile. “When I was training new employees.”

He looked me over as though seeing me with new eyes.

He was making me nervous. “If you think I had anything to do with Seth’s death, I’ll go stay with Ruth and her boyfriend.”

“Nah,” he said shrewdly. “I know you didn’t have nothin’ to do with it other than what you told me. And I know you’re not here lookin’ for my mythical fortune.”

“But you don’t trust me now?” I finished.

He smiled. “The hell I don’t. You had my back and I had yours, which is why I declared you kin.”

“I don’t understand. Why do you have an agreement with Bingham?”

“Because I used to run the drug business in these parts,” he said. “Until I sold it all to Bingham.”

My mouth dropped open and I stared at him in shock. I was living with and caring for a man who had poisoned countless people.

“The look on your face right now tells me all I need to know about your supposed involvement in this Georgia drug scheme.” He suddenly looked eighty years old, although I suspected he was in his late sixties.

“You said used to. What made you stop?”

“A lot of reasons. It was a different world back then. My main competition was Bart Drummond and his moonshine. I didn’t handle any of the bad stuff, usually just pot and uppers and downers. A bit of cocaine, but most people around these parts couldn’t afford it. I didn’t have the stomach or a cook for meth, and oxy was too hard to acquire. Then my Mary got sick and she begged me to give it up. I’d tried to hide it from her and Barb.” He shook his head. “So I sold it all to Bingham. We agreed that I’d burn my weed farm, and he’d leave me and my kin alone. No sellin’ ’em drugs. No contactin’ ’em for any reason in regards to drugs. When Barb started usin’, I went to Bingham and damn near shot his head off his shoulders, but he insisted he hadn’t been part of it. Her boyfriend was bringin’ in drugs from Georgia.”