"Let me go!" I jerked my arm back, but he wouldn't release me. He pulled me closer, leaning across until I felt myself backing away.

"See," he whispered, "you're afraid of me."

"No I'm not," I said, my voice even through clenched teeth. But my heart was racing, and the van was suddenly too close and confining.

Carlucci reached over and hit the button that held my seatbelt in place. He moved, grabbed my legs, and turned me to face him.

I froze, knowing what was coming, remembering the last time he'd kissed me and called me scared. I was not going to back away. I'd show him it didn't matter. And when he reached out to cup my chin, I went to him. His kiss was gentle, but mine was not. I pushed. I kissed him hard, ignoring his attempt to be tender, until he at last responded as I had, giving in to some force that ran between us like a current.

"There," I said, pushing away and wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. "Still think I'm so frightened?" I looked at him and hated him.

I saw the hurt flare up then pass away and the inky blackness return to his eyes. "You are really terrified," he said. "Whoever hurt you cut deep, didn't he?"

I reached for my seatbelt and snapped it back in place. "If I need a therapist, I'll pay one," I said, and pulled back out into traffic.

Chapter Twenty-three

I didn't need to worry about Sheila Lynn Spivey. It was Detective Marshall J. Weathers who needed prayers and divine intervention. By the time I dumped Tony Carlucci out of Bonnie's van, returned it to her, and scooted over to the police department, half an hour had passed and Weathers was firmly roasting on the skewer of Sheila's rapierlike anger. There is nothing like a scornful adolescent to rattle the cage of your self-assurance. And Miss Sheila was one dynamite cage shaker.

Weathers led me to her. He had not isolated her in an interview room, knowing that this would not be appropriate, but the price he paid was that every detective and support staff member of C.I.D. had full access to the exact extent of Sheila's wrath.

"She's been giving me hell," he said when he came for me.

"Uh-huh," I answered.

"I can't seem to get her to calm down. She just goes on and on. I told her we're looking at all the evidence. I told her that I didn't want to arrest her daddy, but I had no choice. Why won't she listen?"

He seemed genuinely perplexed. I said nothing, just followed silently behind him, thankful that my little girl was indeed all right.

When we rounded the corner into his cubicle, I saw her. She sat across from his desk in a battered metal chair with a vinyl seat cushion that had ripped and spilled a thin crumble of ancient, spongy filling.

Her legs were sprawled out in front of her, crossed at the ankles, and she slouched in the chair with her arms crossed and a giant wad of bubble gum stuck in her mouth. On her lap was a puppy of indistinguishable heritage. Despite her attempts to dress otherwise, Sheila looked five years old.

"Hey, babe," I said, stroking her hair as I pulled up a chair next to her.

Sheila looked over at me with the same frown she'd been reserving for Weathers. "Whatever," she said softly. Then, sensing a probable ally, she straightened up, glared at Weathers and turned to face me.

"Mama," she said, "you're, like, over him, right?"

I groaned silently and felt myself melt under the intensity of her gaze.

"Sheila, let's focus on what's going on here. I thought I told you to stay on Darlene and Earl's farm. They are worried sick. And technically, you stole your uncle's truck."

Sheila sighed impatiently. "Whatever, Mama," she said. "But somebody had to take care of Daddy."

And the awful realization hit. I was raising her to be just like me.

"No, honey, Daddy can take care of himself."

"From a freaking jail cell? Oh, I think not." She turned her attention back to Weathers. "All right. You've got Daddy's gun as the murder weapon. But there was no gunpowder residue on his hands, was there?"

Sheila tossed her hair like she'd just played a trump card and Marshall hid a smile.

"Too much time had elapsed, Sheila," he said. "The test wouldn't have shown anything."

"So, like, what would be his motive?"

"There's three million dollars missing."

"Oh well, like, duh. My dad is so stupid he'd shoot someone when everyone knew he was going off with the guy? My dad is not that stupid."

Before Weathers could answer, I stopped the process. "Baby, this won't get you anywhere. I've called in Roth Carruthers. He'll try and get Daddy out on bail tomorrow."

Sheila drew her long legs up and stood, cradling the sleeping puppy in her arms. She looked at each of us. "So, this is being adult, huh? You call a big-shot lawyer and try to act all civil about it." Her voice dripped with rage and contempt. "Well," she said, looking at Weathers, "I don't think that's honest. I say you're a big, stupid jerk. And I say, if you come near me and my mom, I'll…"

"Sheila, stop."

Weathers looked sad. "I'm sorry about this, Sheila. I can understand why you need to be angry with me."

"Oh, bite me, cop!" she said, and took off.

"I'm sorry," I said. Marshall Weathers had done a terrible thing. For the first time I found myself doubting Vernell's innocence, and that felt horrible.

"Maggie," Weathers said, "I heard what you said about being worried for your safety. I'm going to put someone on your house, or wherever it is you go. If you take Sheila back to Virginia, I'll call up there and get some coverage too."

The moment might've turned, could've gone any one of a number of ways, I was so confused, but I didn't have to worry about that. Tracy the cadet chose that moment to make a well-timed entrance into Marshall's cubicle. I didn't doubt for one second that she'd been listening to our conversation.

"Mama," Sheila called from somewhere out in the corridor, "let's get out of this place!"

I couldn't have agreed with her more or moved any faster.

"Hey, Marsh," Tracy said, "can you pick me up tonight? My car's in the shop."

Yeah, probably busted from all the rolling around they'd done in it the night before, I figured. And then I found myself staring at the third finger of Marshall's left hand, looking for the pale indentation. I caught myself, caught Marshall watching me, and spun around.

"Mama!" Sheila called.

I tore out of the cubicle like the Queen Mary headed for England, sailing past Sheila and right on down the hallway toward the exit. Sheila followed me, her heavy shoes making loud clomping noises that echoed off the walls of the police department corridors. I waited until we were out in the parking lot to take on my hell-raising daughter.

"Sheila, I know you're mad about your dad, but there's something you need to understand. He's in big trouble and it's very dangerous for you to be around right now."

Sheila's puppy woke up and stared at me with huge, liquid brown eyes. Sheila was staring too, but her stare was hard and unfriendly.

"I'll be eighteen next year," she said. "According to the law, I could be declared an emancipated minor right now. I know how to shoot a gun. Daddy taught me. I took two self-defense classes and knocked Mr. Gray right on his butt, not just once, but every single time we sparred."

She patted her puppy's head absently and continued her lecture.

"My psychology teacher says that my reaction time and my cognitive thinking skills are peaking. So, I think I'm gonna stay right here and help you."

"Your reaction time may be peaking, but your judgment skills are nowhere near functional." I squared off, my hands on my hips and a frown on my face.

"Mama, you are starting a power struggle, a control battle. That is, like, so totally unnecessary. We should work together on the problem, not let it come between us."