“Everyone knew where Craig was found?”
Becky nods.
“Did anyone hear you threaten her? Do you think the town knows about that too?”
“Shit, I don’t know. I don’t think that at the time I was overheard—the customer had left. Only the four of us were in the building. But Marty could have told anyone or...shit, everyone.”
I’m not sure what to say.
Becky turns my way. “I didn’t kill her. You know that, right?”
“Of course I know that. No one would think that.”
“I wasn’t at the party. I was home with Hank.”
“I never doubted that,” I say, reaching out and placing my hand on her knee. “You and Hank were both home?”
Becky nods. “Yes. We watched some movie on Netflix and went to bed. I don’t know what time we fell asleep, but I woke in the morning to the text messages about the missing girls.”
“Maybe you should tell Sheriff Manes.”
“Tell him what?”
“Everything you told me.”
Her head moves back and forth. “I think it’s best to let sleeping dogs lie.” She finishes her second glass of wine and sets it back on the breakfast bar. “How is Julie? That’s really why I’m here.”
“She’s stable. We should know?—”
Becky places her hand on mine. “Don’t tell me that. Tell me how she is. Hell, I just told you my deep, dark secret. How is Julie?”
“I think we need more wine.”
Chapter
Twenty-Four
Walking quietly out of the bedroom, I spy Becky still asleep on the living room sofa. While I’m not sure why she didn’t take the second bedroom, it was my idea for her to stay. We didn’t stop at a few glasses of wine last night. By the collection of bottles on the counter, we didn’t stop at one bottle—a piece.
Neither one of us was in any condition to drive.
Our late-night, alcohol-enhanced talk was both enlightening and cathartic. We caught up in a way that isn’t possible over the phone. At some time after midnight, Becky sent Hank a text message, telling him she was spending the night with me. I’m not going to lie; I half expected him to show up as soon as she hit send.
He didn’t then.
He’s here now.
I’m not aware of his presence because Hank knocked on the door or called my phone. I doubt he has my number. Instead, he woke me with a rap on thebedroom window. When I moved the blind to investigate the noise, he motioned toward the back of the cottage.
Taking a deep breath, I open the back door. I’m greeted by the morning chill. Fog hovers near the ground as the beams of sunlight penetrate the tall trees. Taking a step onto the stoop, I meet Hank Sanders’s green gaze.
With his hands buried deep in the pockets of his blue jeans, his generally looming stance is more subdued. His normally wide shoulders are bowed forward, and his chin is down as if he is mesmerized by the dust on his pointed-toe boots.
Wearing pajama pants and a camisole, I tug a sweatshirt down and quietly close the door behind me.
Finally, he looks up. “Thanks for keeping her last night.”
Above us the branches sway, creating a scattering of sunlight to strobe upon the mist-covered ground. “Do you want to come in?” I ask, my body quickly chilled by the morning temperature.
