“What do you think it means, her vanishing like that?”

“How the hell should I know, Pat? First thing that springs to mind is that she didn’t want to be arrested.”

There was an implied duh at the end of that, which Pat ignored. “How much do you think Jay told her?”

In a different tone, one rife with uncertainty, George said, “I don’t know.”

The other man’s anxiety increased Pat’s own. “Oh, Jesus.”

“For crissake, will you get a grip? Don’t fall apart.”

“What are we going to do?”

“Nothing. We’re going to do nothing except act as though everything is normal. Do nothing, Pat, you understand me?”

Pat resented the other man’s bullying tone. Who did he think he was, talking down to him like that? He, who everybody knew was his father-in-law’s whipping boy. He, who had a wife with a leg problem-she couldn’t keep them closed.

George had been one of Pat Sr.’s best friends when they were fellow police officers. By extension, he became a family friend and was often a guest at their house for dinner. Pat could remember George socking him playfully on the arm, teasing him about girls, talking to him about baseball, and playing video games with him. He was loud and rambunctious and fun.

That was before he married Miranda Conway. Before he and Pat Sr. became heroes. Before the fire.

After that, they didn’t see much of George McGowan around the Wickham household.

“I gotta go now,” George said. “And don’t call me again. The less contact we have, the better. You got that?”

He hung up before Pat could counter. Pat’s palm was damp as he replaced the telephone receiver in its cradle. He pretended to be studying the file on his computer screen in case another officer happened by.

The call to George hadn’t allayed his nervousness, as hoped, but escalated it. The big man’s bravado was phony. Pat would bet that if you scratched the surface of George McGowan’s brawny body, you’d find a coward as fearful as he was.

Like him, George was afraid that someone would trace Jay Burgess’s murder back to the police station fire. Would anyone make that connection? Was there any suspicion that the two events were related?

Was anyone watching him?

Pat Wickham, Jr., often wished he had eyes in the back of his head.

And not just at work.

CHAPTER 12

SITTING ON THE TREE STUMP AT THE EDGE OF THE WOODS, Raley watched Delno take the dead rabbit and his trio of hounds and tromp off in the direction of his cabin. The dense foliage seemed to swallow him whole and left nothing to indicate his passage except a cantankerous, territorial blue jay.

Around Raley’s cabin, hardwoods fraternized with evergreens. In the spring, blooming trees and wild bushes created splashes of white and pastel. Even in the dead of winter, the palmettos and live oaks stayed green, giving the illusion of eternal summer.

The place could be really pretty, if one had a mind to spruce up the cabin, modernize the kitchen and bathroom, furnish it properly, add some amenities, some homeyness, some more sweet potato vines.

Impatient with himself, Raley pushed aside the daydream and the pleasing images it conjured.

He’d used his irritation with Delno as an excuse to get out of the cabin for a while. But even if Delno hadn’t interrupted, Raley would have fabricated a reason to go outside. He was used to living without air-conditioning. The summer heat and humidity no longer bothered him. Except today. Today the air within the four walls of the cabin had been stifling.

But the atmosphere couldn’t be blamed for his claustrophobia any more than Delno could. It was talking about the fire, and Suzi Monroe’s death, and all the crap that followed that had caused anger and resentment to build inside his chest until it became so constricted he could no longer breathe.

And then there was Britt Shelley.

He’d had to take a breather from her, too. When she’d asked what she could do to make up for all the ills she’d imposed on him, several possibilities had sprung immediately to mind. All of them tantalizing. All of them prohibited.

Last night, when he forced her to sleep beside him, he’d done it to make her uncertain and uncomfortable. Call it payback for all the grief she’d caused him.

But in all honesty, he’d also done it because he couldn’t resist lying down with a woman with whom he’d had a conversation-even a hostile one-that went beyond “How much?” or “I’ll be gone in the morning. This is just for tonight.” And usually he left long before morning.

Now, he thought sleeping beside Britt had probably been a gross strategic error. While the tactic had served its original purpose, it had also inflamed his imagination.

But skulking outside was taking a coward’s way out to avoid her, wasn’t it? He forced himself off the stump, across his yard, and up the steps. He went inside.

She was standing in the dead center of the room, arms at her sides, as though she’d been ordered to wait there for his return. She was backlighted by the western sun coming through the kitchen window. The ceiling fan caused strands of hair to lift and fall around her face in an airy dance.

She said, “It’s getting late. I should go back now.”

“Right.” He’d talked through all the morning hours and into the afternoon. Only now did he realize that most of the day was gone.

Self-consciously she tugged on the hem of the chambray shirt. It fell to midthigh on her. The sleeves had been rolled to her elbows. She’d buttoned all but the collar button. “I hope you don’t mind that I borrowed this. I couldn’t find my windbreaker.”

It was hotter inside than out, so she hadn’t put on his shirt because she’d caught a chill. More likely she’d finally realized how abbreviated her sleeping attire was. It wasn’t a slinky see-through negligee, all the critical parts were covered, but by lightweight fabric that clung and looked like it would dissolve if touched. Last night, he’d done the gentlemanly thing by putting the windbreaker on her before carrying her from her house.

“Your windbreaker is on the ground out by the truck,” he said. “I think one of the hounds used it for a pallet.”

“It’s okay.”

“Are you ready?”

She nodded.

“Need the bathroom before we head out?”

“I’m fine.”

“I’ll be right with you.”

In the bedroom, he changed out of yesterday’s shirt and put on a fresh one, realizing as he reached into his tiny closet that she must have recently rifled through it to get the shirt. He wondered why she’d chosen the chambray. It was old and soft from being washed so many times. Maybe it looked comfortable. Maybe she thought it would fit her better than the others. Maybe she thought the rest of his shirts were ugly.

He used the toilet, washed his hands, and was about to leave the bathroom when he decided to brush his teeth. He noted that the cap on the tube of toothpaste had been replaced since he’d used it that morning. Her doing, because he had a bad habit of leaving it uncapped.

She had cleaned her mouth, too. For some reason, knowing that stirred him.

He turned off the fan and locked the cabin door. She had already climbed into the cab of his truck by the time he got outside. He picked up her windbreaker, shook off the dirt before tossing it into the bed of the truck, then got in.

She’d found her purse on the floorboard. Taking a small hairbrush from it, she ran it through her hair, checked her reflection in the mirror of a compact, and sighed over what she saw. However, she didn’t bother to make repairs. After returning the compact and hairbrush to the handbag, she replaced it on the floorboard between her feet.

They rode in silence for as long as it took them to cover the four point seven miles to the main road. As he turned onto it, he said, “I’ll drop you at your car.”