Clint told her, 'We've been following you since you got into town. You think it's just coincidence we happened to have Charlotte with us the night we ran your car off the road?'

Lena felt her mouth open, but nothing would come out.

'You could've gone peacefully a couple of weeks from now. Needle in your arm, suicide note talking about how sad you were that your uncle was dead.' He glanced at Sara, shook his head, sad. 'You almost made it, too.'

Valentine snapped, 'Stop wasting time and get started.'

Clint put the box on the counter and walked over to the stove. He pushed Hank's pamphlets off the burners and tried the knobs. None of the burners would come on, probably because Hank hadn't used the stove in twenty years. Still, Clint didn't give up. He turned one of the knobs and leaned down, sniffing for gas. Satisfied, he took out a box of matches and struck one. The flame whooshed as the gas caught. He turned off the burner and tried each one in turn. Two lighted as easily as the first, but he had to take off the grate and use his thumbnail to clean the fourth before enough gas came out of the valve to catch flame.

Sara asked Valentine, 'What are you doing?'

He didn't answer as he took various items out of the box Clint had brought and lined them up on the counter. Acetone, rubbing alcohol, ammonia, lye.

'Shit,' Lena hissed. 'Meth. They're going to cook meth.'

'Don't worry,' Valentine told her, opening and closing cabinets until he found Hank's coffee mugs. They were old, handmade in Mexico – so fragile that Hank only used them on special occasions. He held up one of the cups, smiled. 'It won't cook for very long.'

No, it wouldn't. Once the ingredients got too hot, the ceramic would break. The liquid would explode the second it touched the open flame, burning chemicals sticking like hot wax to everything they landed on – walls, carpets, skin. Cooking meth was so dangerous that only meth-addled junkies attempted it, and the ensuing explosions could cause massive damage not just to people but to property. Most states considered meth labs weapons of mass destruction and had asked for funding to clean them up under the Homeland Security act.

'Is that the business you were doing at the motel?' Lena asked. 'Hank saw you cooking meth?'

'I told you we were meeting with some associates,' Valentine answered, taking small cans of Coleman fuel out of the cardboard box. 'Some very important associates.'

'What associates?' she pressed. 'Mexicans? Skinheads?'

Valentine stopped unloading the box, annoyed. 'You wanna know the story? You wanna know what happened?'

Now that she had the answer within her grasp, Lena wasn't sure whether or not she wanted to hear it.

Valentine started to turn back around, but she stopped him. 'Yes. I want to know what happened.'

He leaned against the counter, propping his gun hand up at the elbow. 'Hank tried to go around me, hook up with some boys at the state.'

'The GBI?' she asked. Why had Hank gone to the GBI instead of asking Lena for help? He hadn't wanted to get her involved, of course. He'd tried all his life to keep Lena out of the thick of things, just as she'd worked steadily to keep herself right in the middle.

Valentine said, 'Fortunately, he went to somebody who was a friend of ours – somebody ready to move up north and take a long vacation.' He smiled at the simplicity. 'It wasn't too hard getting Hank hooked again. You know meth's only got a twenty-two percent recovery rate? And most of them never stop wanting it. Mind over matter, I guess. Clint had a couple conversations with him, shot him up a few times. Pretty soon he was paying for it.'

'Did you know that I was a cop?' Lena asked. 'Did you know that I would come looking for Hank?'

'Of course we knew about you,' he told her. 'How do you think we controlled him in the beginning? He was terrified you'd come down and get hurt. Honestly' – he shrugged – 'I can't believe the dumb coot's still alive. The shit Clint was feeding him was pure enough to kill a horse – grade A Ya Ba. He should've been dead weeks ago. We figured by the time you made it down here, it'd be for his funeral.'

'How can you-' Sara began, but the back door opened. Fred Bart looked just as surprised to see Sara and Lena as they were to see him. It had taken a while, but Lena had finally placed who Charlotte 's killer was. Bart had been practicing in Reece since Lena was a kid. It was hard to forget a dentist who had freakishly small teeth.

'No way,' Bart said, backing up. 'I didn't sign up for this.'

'Get your ass in here,' Valentine ordered, using the gun to wave him in.

Bart said, 'I only brought enough for one. Clint didn't say-'

Clint swung around aggressively. 'What did I say, you stupid cocksucker?'

Valentine ignored them, asking Lena, 'You got any more questions?'

She opened her mouth to answer and he slammed his gun into the side of her head. Lena saw stars as she fell. The only thing that kept her from hitting the floor was the fact that she was handcuffed to Sara.

' Lena!' Sara struggled to pull her back into the chair.

Lena 's ears were ringing. She heard Valentine say, 'Do the doc. I owe it to her husband.'

'No!' Sara screamed, rearing back, taking Lena with her. Clint stepped in, bear-hugging Sara from behind. Lena was dragged across the floor as Sara struggled against the man, fighting for her life. Valentine's hand clamped down on Sara's handcuffed right wrist and Lena saw Fred Bart jam a needle into her arm.

Two or three seconds later, Sara stopped struggling. She crumpled to the floor beside Lena, her eyes glassy. Lena put her fingers to Sara's neck, tried to feel for a pulse.

Bart said, 'It's just a mild sedative, darlin' -something to take the edge off. She'll be fine.'

Valentine fished the keys to the handcuffs out of his pocket. 'Yeah, she'll be fine until she dies.' He gave Bart the gun, saying, 'Shoot her in the head if she moves.'

Bart took the weapon, showing the same easy familiarity as that night he'd sat by Charlotte in the back of the Escalade. 'What are you going to do, Jake? I didn't sign on for any of this. I don't hurt innocent people.'

'You do if you have to.' Valentine twisted the key in Sara's cuff and her hand fell to the ground. He told Clint, 'Take her into the hall so I don't have to look at her anymore.'

Clint's lips twisted up in a smile.

'Get right back in here,' Valentine ordered. 'Don't fiddle with her or I'll cut your goddamn cock off.'

Bart had taken his eyes off Lena. She edged toward the door and he snapped the gun at her head. 'Don't try it, sugar. We both know what I am capable of.'

Lena sat back in the chair. The cuff was still dangling from her hand and she worked her fingers along the chain, thinking she could use it as some kind of weapon. She grabbed the cold, curved metal in her hand, fashioning it into brass knuckles. If Bart or Valentine got close enough, she would hit them as hard as she could no matter who had a gun pointed at her face. Better to die from a bullet than burn to death like Charlotte.

Clint came back, the door swinging behind him. Lena caught a glimpse of Sara lying in the hallway before the door swung closed.

Bart asked, 'Jake, what are we doing here?'

Valentine reached into the cardboard box and threw out a handful of empty blister packs from a box of cold medicine. 'We're making meth.' He tossed more of the empty packets onto the counter, scattered some matchbooks on the kitchen table. The box had everything he needed: medical tubing, beakers, filters. He dumped the box on the table, too.

Bart asked, 'Why are these girls here, Jake? I told you after Charlotte that I was finished with this kind of shit.'

'You're not finished with anything until I say you are.'

Bart kept the gun on Lena, but he said, 'I don't want to be a part of this.'