He pointed the Beretta at him, moved closer, knew what he’d find. There was an entry wound behind his left ear, the dreads there matted with blood.

Near the chair, a set of bloody pruning shears. Delva’s left arm dangled almost to the floor, but the pinkie and ring fingers were stumped, blood spatter on the concrete beneath them. The blue bandana was tied tight around his wrist, a makeshift tourniquet to keep him from bleeding out while they worked on him.

Morgan put a gloved finger on his forehead, gently pushed. The mouth sagged open and something fell out, bounced from a naked thigh to clatter on the floor. A black domino with six white circles.

Morgan went back up the steps, turned the light off, closed the door.

He’d parked the Toyota in a stand of scrub pine three blocks away, hidden from the street. The night was quiet around him. As he neared the car, he raised the Beretta, in case they’d found it, were waiting for him. No one.

He got in, touched wires to restart the engine. Then he reversed out of the trees, cut the wheel hard, started back.

He was shirtless in front of the mirror, wiping sweat with a towel, when the cramp hit him.

It bent him, a stabbing pain followed by a burning surge through his bowels. He tore at his belt, got the pants down and made it onto the toilet just in time. The waste exploded out of him, hot and fluid and painful, spasm following spasm. He put his elbows on his knees, rested his head in his hands. He felt dizzy, flush.

After a while, the pain lessened. He sat there until the nausea subsided, then cleaned himself off and turned on the shower. He stood in the lukewarm spray, holding on to the showerhead for balance.

When he was done, he dried off as best he could, drank a glass of cool water from the sink, splashed more on his face. He got a full Vicodin down, then checked the door locks and lay across the bed, feeling the room start to spin around him. It was five minutes before he had the energy to crawl under the sheet.

The last thing he did was take the Beretta from the nightstand and set it on the bed beside him, the grip cool in his sweating hand. Then he closed his eyes.

Sara spun the wheel and turned into Billy’s driveway, dust kicking up around the Blazer. The Camaro and truck were both in the carport.

She braked, leaned on the horn. Eight thirty in the morning, but she’d been up most of the night. She hit the horn again, held it, saw curtains pushed aside in the kitchen window. Woke them up. Good.

The door opened, and Billy came out. Jeans, white T-shirt, flip-flops. Lee-Anne in the doorway behind him in cutoffs and Jack Daniel’s T-shirt.

Sara opened her door, stepped down. He tried to smile as he got closer, his face still puffy from sleep, eyes bloodshot.

“Jesus, Sara,” he said. “A little early for a Saturday, isn’t it?”

She stepped to him, swung with her right hand, putting her hip into it as she’d been taught. Her fist cracked into his left cheekbone, snapped his head to the side. She felt the impact all the way to her shoulder. He stagger-stepped, recovered.

“What the fuck, Sara?”

She heard the screen door slam, turned to see Lee-Anne coming toward them.

“Keep your hands off him, bitch!”

Sara turned to face her, got ready.

Billy stepped between them, caught Lee-Anne’s arm. “Whoah,” he said.

She tried to push past him. Sara held her ground, waiting for her to close the distance. Billy used his body to turn Lee-Anne back toward the house. She twisted out of his grip.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” Spittle flew from her mouth. “Don’t you ever fucking touch him!”

He caught her arm again, tried to steer her away. “It’s okay,” he said. “Enough. It’s okay.”

She lunged, her face bright red, and Sara took an involuntary step back. Billy held her tight.

“Why can’t you just leave us alone?” Lee-Anne said. “What’s your fucking problem?”

Billy squeezed her arm, turned her gently.

“It’s all right,” he said. “We’re just going to talk. Go back inside.”

She pulled away from him, turned back to Sara, but didn’t come closer. Sara could feel her heart pumping, her face warm.

“Stay away from here. You come back again, deputy or no, I’ll beat your dyke ass.”

“Inside, Lee-Anne.” He put a hand on her lower back to guide her. She pushed it away, and he slipped an arm around her waist, whispered in her ear, turned her back toward the house again.

They watched as she went up the stairs and inside, the screen door slamming behind her.

“I think you should leave,” he said. “She means it.”

“No chance. What were you doing outside my house last night?”

“I wasn’t.”

“No? Then who was driving your truck?”

He slipped his hands in his back pockets, turned to look at the house, then back at her. There was a red blotch on his cheek.

“Let’s go somewhere we can talk,” he said.

“What’s wrong with here?”

“Not a good idea.”

She looked past him, saw Lee-Anne standing behind the screen, watching them.

“Okay,” Sara said. “Get in.”

She K-turned and headed back down the driveway, trembling with adrenaline. When they reached the main road, she said, “Where are we going?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

She turned left.

He touched his cheek, the redness already darkening into a bruise. “You still hit solid. Guess I deserved that, all I’ve put you through lately.”

“You want to tell me what’s going on?”

He looked out his window. They reached the highway intersection, turned toward town, neither of them speaking. Ahead on the right was the old Hopedale Diner, sign long gone, windows plywooded over. She pulled into the cracked lot. A rusted newspaper honor box lay on its side near the entrance.

She killed the engine, looked at him. He angled the rearview toward him, examined his cheek, the spreading bruise.

“I know about the Taurus,” she said.

He pushed the mirror back, looked out the window.

“And?” he said.

“And it’s time you start talking to me. What were you doing at my house?”

“I was worried about you.”

“Worried about what?”

“A lot of things.”

“Like how much I know?”

“Maybe.”

“You need to tell me what’s going on, Billy, before all this gets out of hand.”

He powered down his window, looked at the diner’s boarded-up entrance. “Would you believe me if I told you there was an explanation?”

“I’m listening.”

“What do you know about the gun?”

“That it came from the evidence room at the SO. That you planted it on Willis.”

“You’re right.” He met her eyes. “I did.”

There it is. So why are you not surprised?

“Christ, Billy. Why?”

“Why do you think? I got scared.”

“What happened out there? Really.”

He took a breath.

“It was pretty much like I told it,” he said. “He was speeding, wandering all over the road. I pulled him over, looked at his documents. He was nervous, so I asked him if there were any drugs or weapons in the car, anything I should know about. He said no, so I asked him to open the trunk. That’s when he bolted.”

“He was already out of the car?”

“He said the trunk release up front didn’t work, he had to use the key. He went around back, as if he were getting ready to open it, then tossed the keys at my face, took off down the slope. I told him to stop, and when he turned around I saw a gun in his hand. At least I thought it was a gun. I drew and fired.”

“What was it?”

“I don’t know. When I got down there I couldn’t find anything. I hunted around. I was sure I saw it, you know? But there was nothing. That’s when I started to panic.”

“You had the Taurus with you?”

“In a wheel well in the cruiser. I’d been carrying it for about a year, I guess. I’d heard it was what the old-timers used to do. Keep a throwdown handy, just in case.”