Carrie’s stomach shifted. Probably fire her, she figured he would say.

He continued to look at her. “Or what I think of your assessment of Steadman’s case?”

“I think the first part doesn’t need to be gone into too much.” Carrie shrugged with a contrite smile.

“Or maybe why you’d be putting your job at risk, what with Raef in there in need of care?”

“Just for the record, I could be out of a job next month because of a budget cutback. Even next week,” Carrie said. She sat back and pressed the cold beer bottle against her cheeks.

“Look, I can see you believe him, PK . . .” “PK” had been his nickname for her ever since she ski-raced as a kid back in New Hampshire, a twisting of the name of her idol, Picabo Street. “But the way you went about it . . .”

“I know.” She averted her eyes. Then she raised them back to him. “But the truth has to count for something, doesn’t it, Dad?”

“It does . . . The truth does account for something, honey. It’s just that—”

“Look”—she swung around and leaned close to him—“everything that happened from the time this guy set foot in town seems meant to pin Steadman for those murders. Why would he beg me to look for those plates? What possible gain would there be for him in that? And then the plates checked out. Why would he risk calling me, believing we’d have a trace on him? He doesn’t know me from Adam, Dad . . .”

“Eve,” her father said, smiling. “He wouldn’t know you from Eve . . .”

Carrie let out a breath, which relaxed her. “Okay, Eve . . .”

“You run this by anyone at the office?”

“I tried to.” Carrie sighed. “Akers. I tried to show him what I had, but the mood’s pretty tense there, politically, and everyone’s worked up over Martinez, and it was all falling on deaf ears. It’s pretty clear they don’t want to deal with any possibility except Steadman. Especially now that this thing about the gun show has come up. It’s damning. So what do I do? Drop my file off on Akers’s desk as I’m signing my own termination papers and go, ‘Oh, by the way, Steadman isn’t your man’ . . . ?”

“Or . . . ?” Nate asked, looking at her judiciously.

“Or . . . I don’t know . . .” Carrie said. “Prove it.”

Her dad cradled his beer again, rotating the bottle. “You know you’ve been through a lot, Carrie. You’ve had things taken from you that none of us should ever have to deal with. You’ve always been a tough little gal, and we’ve all been proud of you . . . Whatever you’ve done. But are you sure you’re not finding some way to feel”—he hesitated a second as he chose the word—“important again in some way. Not important . . .” He frowned at himself. “Maybe that wasn’t it. Maybe I mean attached to something. Or simply alive.”

“I feel plenty alive, Dad,” Carrie said. She looked toward Raef’s bedroom. “I feel about as alive as I need to feel right now.”

“Then you’re boxing yourself into a dangerous place, honey . . . Between what your conscience says, and what the rest of us would say.”

There was a long-drawn-out silence. He was saying what Carrie pretty much expected him to say. What anyone rational would say. Of course, “rational” wasn’t exactly the operative word in her life lately. And maybe her dad was right—maybe there was just a little need to feel vital again after what had happened to her, and it was this that had opened her a little to Steadman’s pleas.

Then you’ll understand what I’m saying, Carrie. I swear, on my daughter . . .

But that didn’t change what she now was certain had to be the truth.

“So you’re sure?” Nate brought her back, looking her in the eyes. “You’re one hundred percent sure, Carrie, it was the same car at both scenes?”

“You want to see the photos?” Carrie looked back at him just as firmly.

“No,” he answered, leaning back. “I don’t need to see the photos. Not if you say so, girl. It’s just that . . . this isn’t gonna go so well for you, as you say, politically, no matter which way it works out.”

“Which way . . .” Carrie cocked her head quizzically.

“Whether you drop it off on Akers’s desk. Or whether you do what you have to do. To find the truth.”

She stared at him.

Her father winked. “Never let it be said Nate Walsh stood in the way of the truth. Or of his little girl, when she’s got a mind to do something. You’ve got the plate number . . .” He shrugged. “I don’t think it would be too hard to find a name behind it. I think we both know a federal agent in Atlanta who just might get you an ID on it pretty quick.”

Carrie looked at her father and smiled at him gratefully, the blood rushing back into her face.

“And you damn well better hope they’re not stolen . . .” He rolled his eyes. “Which they probably are. ’Cause where the hell would that set your case?”

“I know.” Carrie grinned and nodded. “I know.”

“So come on . . .” He stood up. He reached a hand for her. “Let’s go help your mom clean up . . .”

She took his hand, and when she got to her feet, she looked into her father’s eyes, his deep, gray, shouldering eyes, and he put his arms around her and she put her head against his chest.

“Thank you, Daddy,” she whispered. “Thank you for believing in me.”

“As long as you know the real reason you’re taking this on, PK? Why you’re putting everything at risk, everything that only a few months back seemed like the world to you. Your position. Your reputation. It’s one thing to keep a secret from the job, something else to keep it from yourself.”

“Because it wasn’t everything, Daddy.” She lifted her head off his chest and looked him in the eyes. She knew exactly why she would do it, though the answer had never come so clearly, nor quite this way. “Rick was! And he would do it. He wouldn’t just let it go. He’d dig for the truth, right? Wouldn’t he, Dad? And right now . . .” Her eyes glazed up a bit and a tear rolled down her cheek and landed on his golf shirt. “Right now what I want more than anything in the world is to make him proud.”

“He would be proud, honey,” her father said, squeezing her. “He’d have to stand in line to say it, but I promise you, he would be proud.”

Chapter Thirty-One

“Maryanne . . . ?”

I knew I was taking a chance. I could feel my assistant trying to decide whether to answer. And with all that had come out, I couldn’t blame her if she didn’t.

Finally, she said hesitantly, “Dr. Steadman . . . ?”

“Yeah, Maryanne, it’s me. But please—before you say a word, I don’t want anyone else to know I’m calling. Is that all right?”

“Yes, of course. Doctor . . .” She lowered her voice. “We’re just all so confused about what’s going on. But I want you to know, no one here believes a word of it. We all know you couldn’t have done those things. We just want to help you prove yourself . . .”

It was like a warm breeze hearing her say that. To know that the people who actually knew me, who worked with me, didn’t blindly believe what was being said. Maryanne Kunin had been my assistant for fifteen years. I’d been there for her when her husband lost his contracting company and then a condo they owned in Destin went down below their mortgage.

Now she would be there for me.

“Maryanne, listen, I need something from you. It’s important! It’s just that no one else can know. That’s vital. But there’s nothing anyone can do for me right now that can help me more. Can I count on you?”

“Of course, Doctor,” she replied almost as quickly as I had asked her.

“Thank you.” I felt a lump catch in my throat. My voice cracked a little with emotion. “You just have to know, Maryanne, I didn’t do those things they said. Any of them. I—”