“You think he’ll tell us anything?”
Rory’s question tugged Chance back to the moment. “We can hope. He received a life sentence without the possibility of parole. It’s not like he has a whole lot to lose.”
Then again, Alabama was one of the states that still had the death penalty.
The door opened. Rory stiffened, her tension escalating. Chance wished there was more he could say to relieve that tension, but that would be impossible. If this man was the one…
He blocked the thought. Needed to focus.
Rick Hill was forty. He’d celebrated his recent birthday behind bars. This wasn’t his first time behind bars. He had a lengthy rap sheet. Mostly low-level brushes with the law, but he’d screwed up royally that last time. The last two times, in fact. First by leaving his DNA at a crime scene and then by getting caught in the transmission of a crime.
The guards ushered Hill to the chair on the other side of the table. His wrists and ankles were shackled. One of the guards fastened the shackles to the hook latch bolted to the floor.
“Let us know when the interview is over,” the taller of the two guards said just before they exited the room.
Chance’s attention settled on the prisoner then. Hill’s hair was buzzed short. The gray eyes that Alita Whitmore had mentioned shifted from Chance to Rory.
Fury tightened Chance’s lips, but he forced himself to relax. What he needed from this bastard—all he needed—was the name of his partner. The one who likely murdered Pete Harris.
“Mr. Hill,” Chance said, drawing the man’s attention back to him.
“That’s me,” Hill said as if Chance had asked a question.
“You and a partner,” Chance began, “broke into the home of Alita Whitmore and Carla Allston on December 20, year before last.”
He made a rude sound and rolled his eyes. “What of it?”
“The two of you drugged your victims and took a number of items from their home.”
“Look.” He set his gaze on Chance, a smirk on his face. “If you’re here to ask about those gold coins, I got no clue what he did with them. He gave me cash for my share, and that’s all I can tell you.”
“What the two of you did with the items you stole is irrelevant to me, Mr. Hill.”
Another roll of his eyes. “Irrelevant,” he mocked in a squeaky voice.
“Did you kill my husband?” Rory demanded abruptly.
Dead silence lingered for about five seconds. Chance waited, watched the man’s reaction.
His gaze swung to Rory, and he stared.
Chance fought the urge to rail at him or punch the hell out of him.
“Why would I kill your husband? I don’t even know you.” He made a face and looked away, stared at the wall as if something interesting was there that only he could see.
“Pete Harris was my husband. You and your partner came into White Cottage on our wedding night and murdered him and raped me. So don’t pretend you don’t know him or me.”
He turned his face back to Rory. Another smirk appeared. “I think I would remember if I had ever been inside you.”
Chance leaned forward, the urge to act pulsating in his veins. “You should watch your mouth.”
Hill laughed. “What you gonna do? Beat me up?” He shook his head. “Get over yourself, hotshot. Besides, she started it.”
Beneath the table, Rory rested a hand on Chance’s thigh.
Chance drew back, regained some semblance of control—at least with his anger. Her touch had him feeling other things he shouldn’t. “Just answer the lady’s question, Hill.”
The scumbag exhaled an exaggerated breath. “I ain’t never set out to kill no one.” He looked directly at Rory then. “And I didn’t touch you.”
