George was seated behind a large desk, a bottle of bourbon in front of him. A full highball glass was in one hand, a nine-millimeter pistol in the other. He saw Raley immediately and smiled.

Waving him in with his gun hand, he said, “Come in, Raley. I’ve been waiting for you.”

“I have every confidence that my appointment will be approved by the Senate.”

Despite the upsetting call from Raley, Judge Cassandra Mellors didn’t postpone her scheduled press conference. The room was crowded with reporters jockeying for the best positions, but it wasn’t as well attended as it might have been.

The attempt on Cobb Fordyce’s life had divided the press corps. Many reporters who would have been here covering her all-important day were instead keeping vigil outside the hospital in Columbia, awaiting word on Fordyce’s condition.

“I spoke with the president just a few minutes ago,” she told her audience. “He assured me that the vote taking place later today is a formality. I hope he’s right.” She staved off the chorus of questions. “Naturally, my excitement has been overshadowed by the tragedy that took place this morning at the home of our attorney general, a former colleague and a man I consider still to be a friend. My thoughts and prayers are with Mrs. Fordyce and the boys, as well as with the medical personnel who are valiantly trying to save Cobb Fordyce’s life.”

A reporter asked, “If he survives, will there be permanent brain damage?”

“The extent of the injury and its residual effects haven’t been determined. At this point the doctors are trying to keep him alive.”

“Have you spoken to the detectives who are investigating the crime scene at the AG’s home?”

“No. Regarding that, I have no more details than you.”

“Have you spoken to Mrs. Fordyce?”

“No. Her brother is acting as spokesperson for the family. He’s said that Mrs. Fordyce is at her husband’s side and has requested all our prayers.”

“Is it true that Britt Shelley and Raley Gannon are being sought for questioning in the shooting?”

“I have no comment on that.”

“Mrs. Fordyce identified-”

She raised her hand. “That’s all I have time for now.”

She turned quickly and left them hurling questions at her. When she reached her office, she asked her secretary if there had been any messages. “Nothing, Judge,” she said.

“No word from the hospital?”

She shook her head. “Or from Washington.” Sheepishly, she added, “In spite of what happened today to Mr. Fordyce, I can’t help but be excited for you.”

Candy smiled. “I’ve got butterflies myself. Which is why I need some downtime. I’m going to the other office to rehearse my acceptance speech.” That was a plausible excuse to leave, and her assistant didn’t question her.

Because of all the interruptions and constant demands on Candy’s time when she was in her courthouse office, she often retreated to a sanctuary where she could concentrate, focus, and sometimes rest between sessions on the bench. Only her assistant knew about it, and that was the point. No one could find her there unless she wanted to be found.

“I have my cell. Call me the moment you hear anything.”

“Certainly, Judge.”

She slipped out a back door, taking a familiar path through connecting alleyways that allowed her to cover half a block of Broad Street without ever having to be on the street itself, except to cross it. She emerged from an alley between two buildings and checked to see that the coast was clear. A delivery truck rumbled past, but otherwise there was a break in the traffic. A horse-drawn carriage full of tourists was turning the corner away from her. The media were still assembled in front of the courthouse, but no one was looking in her direction.

She walked swiftly across the street and ducked into an alley that bordered an abandoned office building. It was wedged between its neighbors, but unlike those buildings, it hadn’t been renovated and was in a state of disrepair. It had six floors, but like many other structures in Charleston, it was only one room wide, so unless one were looking for it, the narrow building could easily go unnoticed.

It was so old and neglected that ferns sprouted from cracks in the mortar holding the ancient bricks onto the exterior walls. The judge was the single tenant and was allowed to occupy one small office only because of a favor she’d done the real estate agent who had been trying for years to unload this listing.

At the back of the building was a scratched and dented metal door. Waiting for her there was Britt Shelley, dressed in blue jeans, T-shirt, and baseball cap. She looked like a coed on her way to the ballpark to cheer on the home team, not like a woman accused of murder, fleeing both the law and a purported bad guy.

When Candy appeared, the reporter’s relief was plain in her wide smile. “Thank God Raley reached you.” Sounding breathless, she flattened her hand on her chest. “I was so afraid he wouldn’t get through. I’ve come to surrender to you.”

“Let’s get inside first.” Candy used a key to unlock the dead bolt, then hustled Britt into the musty, dim, damp interior. Reaching around her, she flipped on a light switch so they could see their way across a littered floor to the metal staircase.

Britt handled the climb better than Candy, who was panting by the time they reached the sixth-floor landing. The same key opened the office she had furnished with a desk, a couch for power naps, and a massage chair.

As soon as the door was closed behind them, she said, “Britt, have you heard the news from Columbia?”

Her dire tone didn’t escape the newswoman. Apprehensively, she said, “If you talked to Raley, you know we didn’t wait for our eleven o’clock appointment. We went to Fordyce’s house.”

“Yes, well, there’s more, I’m afraid.” Candy nodded toward a chair facing her desk. “You’d better sit down.”

George was obviously drunk. Raley hoped he was too drunk to shoot straight. Surreptitiously he flipped the record button on the camcorder as Britt had instructed. Even if he didn’t get a good picture, the audio would be there.

He stepped into the study. The first thing that captured his attention was the framed photograph of the four heroes of the fire hanging in a prominent place on the wall. If Fordyce didn’t pull through, then George would be the only surviving one. The last keeper of the secret.

“Nice picture,” Raley remarked.

George didn’t lower the pistol aimed at Raley, but he gave the photo a glance. “Yeah. Made me a fucking hero.” He gestured at the room. “Look at what all my heroism got me.”

Raley walked to the chair across the desk from George and sat down. When he did, he saw the object on the desk near the bottle of whiskey. A vintage cigarette lighter with a lurid picture of a naked woman on it, a hologram. Formerly owned by Cleveland Jones, a gift from his grandfather, souvenir of a carnival.

George’s eyes were bloodshot, his face florid, indicating recent and ample consumption of the bourbon. Unfortunately, however, his gun hand was rock steady. He’d been a cop. He couldn’t miss at this range.

Raley said, “You’re no hero, George.”

The man gave a bitter laugh and quaffed the glass of bourbon, then poured himself another. “She thought so.”

“She?”

“Miranda.”

“Is she here?”

“She’s out.”

“Out where?”

“Just…out. Who knows? Who gives a shit?”

“I think you do, George.”

Another laugh, as bitter as the first. “Yeah, well. My lovely wife. Wouldn’t you agree she’s lovely?”

“And then some.”

George grinned as he took another sip of his fresh whiskey. “You know what it’s like to have the hottest, richest girl around come on to you full throttle?”

“Must be nice.” Raley was glad George was rambling drunkenly. It gave him time to think. He was wondering if he could wrest the pistol away without getting shot in the process. Had the liquor slowed George’s reflexes enough for him to grab the gun before the former cop could react?