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"She has two daughters. But when she was my mother, her name was Kim."
"What do you mean—her name was Kim?" he asked in confusion.
"First, tell me who you are."
"Kade Beckham. I live downstairs."
I blew out a breath. "Oh, you're the renter the police told me about."
"Yes. I heard someone moving around up here and after what happened earlier today, I thought I better check it out."
"You should have brought a gun instead of a bat. My mother was shot."
"I know," he said tersely. "I heard."
"But you weren't here when it happened?"
"I was at the gallery. I arrived an hour after she was taken to the hospital. The police were here, conducting their investigation. How is your mother doing?"
"She's critical but stable for the moment."
"I'm glad she's hanging in there."
"You said you were at the gallery?" I asked.
"I'm an artist."
That explained the paint on his shirt.
"What's your name?" he continued.
"Brynn Landry." I frowned, wondering if I should just believe what he was telling me. "Do you have an ID?"
"Do you?" he countered.
"Yes."
"All right. Let's do it." He pulled out his wallet and handed me his license. The name matched his face, but the address was not downstairs.
"It says you live in New York," I pointed out.
"I was in New York City until last month. I haven't changed my driver's license yet."
"Or maybe you're just making all this up, and you don't really live downstairs."
"How else would I have a key?"
"You might have stolen it."
"I didn't. Let's see your ID."
I set down the violin and pulled my wallet out of my bag, handing over my license.
"Carmel. That's a few hours from here, isn't it?" he asked, as he handed the license back.
"Yes. I drove here as soon as the hospital called to tell me my mother had been shot."
"That must have been upsetting."
