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  The bottle of tequila sits on the nightstand, empty except for a thin puddle at the bottom.

  I find my pants and T-shirt and hobble out into the living room.

  It looks like Sara Beth has been up for a while because there is a half-drunk cup of tea on the coffee table sitting next to today’s paper. The top headline reads RANGER CAUSES TROUBLE AT FUNERAL. Below that is a photograph of me and Cal shoving each other. In the picture, my teeth are clenched, and I look feral, like a wild animal.

  “Oh shit,” I say aloud, and I sit down to read.

  “Doesn’t look good, does it?” Sara Beth says, walking into the living room wearing a towel that barely covers the space between her breasts and the top of her thighs. She’s drying her hair with another towel.

  She looks good, but I’m overwhelmed with regret about last night. It felt so fast, so emotionless.

  I avert my eyes.

  “I’m in so much trouble,” I say, tossing the paper onto the coffee table.

  “Try not to stress about it.” Sara Beth winks at me. “Do I need to distract you like I did last night?”

  “About last night,” I say cautiously. “I’m sorry.”

  She looks hurt. “Don’t be,” she says. “Last night was great. We both needed that. Don’t diminish what happened by apologizing for it.”

  “You’re right.”

  “Look, Rory,” she says, sitting down next to me, “I know we’re not going to pick up where we left off back in high school. I have no illusions about what last night was.”

  Beads of moisture glisten on her chest just above the towel.

  “Okay,” I say. “It’s just that I’m in a bad place right now.”

  “And I’m in a good place,” Sara Beth says, “so let’s just leave it at that.”

  With that, she leans toward me and kisses my cheek with a soft peck.

  I thank her and she hops off the couch. She sashays toward her bedroom door and looks at me with exaggerated seductiveness. “And Rory,” she says, “when you are in a better place, you know where to find me.”

  She whips off her towel and gives me one last glimpse of her naked body before shutting the door to her bedroom.

  I laugh. I appreciate Sara Beth’s humor about the situation, but I can’t help but think her words were mostly said because that’s what I wanted to hear. If I asked her out on a proper date, she would enthusiastically accept. I know this as certainly as I know I will eventually break her heart.

  I return to the article. It mostly rehashes the controversy from my past, but Jeff Willemsen also interviews DeAndre Purvis about the latest in the investigation. The detective is deliberately evasive, but he says that no charges have been filed. He brought Cal in for questioning but released him soon after.

  When Sara Beth returns in jeans and a T-shirt, I’ve finished the article.

  “I can’t believe they let that son of a bitch go,” I say.

  “You really think he did it, don’t you?” Sara Beth says, sitting on the couch next to me and tucking her sockless feet underneath her.

  “Don’t you?”

  “Actually, no.”

  I frown.

  “I know you and Cal have a history,” she says, “but I don’t think he’s the type. Besides, he looked really upset at the funeral. I think he’s hurting. The woman he loved was murdered, and he wants some answers, just like you. I don’t think it’s all an act.”

  I shake my head. “I never said he didn’t love her, or feel something close to love for her anyway, whatever his primitive brain is capable of feeling.”

  “Then why would he kill her?”

  “I saw the crime scene. It was a crime of passion. Besides, I’ve investigated enough murders to know that a killer is often full of regrets. And sadness. I don’t think he’s just acting like he’s hurt. You’re right: he is hurting—because he did it.”

  Chapter 22

  I PULL UP in front of the police station right when DeAndre Purvis is walking back from lunch with a Styrofoam cup in his hand. The police department is housed in the old municipal courthouse, a big stone building with impressive Corinthian pillars and tall granite steps leading to the entrance. Purvis is taking his first step up the stairs when he sees me.

  His expression changes. In the span of seconds, he goes from tired to irritated to flat-out pissed off.

  “What do you want?” Purvis says, looking me up and down.

  I’m still in my dirty suit from the funeral and I know I must be a sight.

  “I want to help.”

  “We are not requesting assistance from the Texas Ranger Division at this time,” Purvis says bureaucratically.

  “Cut the shit,” I say. “I want to help.”

  “Help?” Purvis says. “You’re lucky I don’t throw you in jail for what happened at the funeral yesterday. That was your ex-wife’s funeral, and you shat on it.”

  “Cal Richards shat on it. He wouldn’t have been there if you were doing your job.”

  “I was trying to do my job by keeping an eye out for suspicious people,” Purvis says. “Instead, I had to separate a couple juvenile delinquents trapped in thirty-year-old bodies.”

  I don’t respond. I’m seething and afraid of what I might say. Purvis looks like he hasn’t slept much lately.

  “Even if we called in for help from the Texas Rangers,” Purvis says, “you’d never be assigned the case. No one with any personal involvement would. You know how this works, Rory.”

  I want to explain to Purvis that I need to help. Otherwise, I won’t be able to contain my emotions. Being a part of the investigation will focus my mind. I want to avoid instances like yesterday.

  But I don’t know how to articulate this, so I just say, “I need to do something, DeAndre. Please.”

  My vulnerability takes some of the anger out of Purvis’s posture and expression. He deflates a little and says sympathetically, “Look, if there’s anything you can do to help, I will let you know. I promise. In the meantime, go home, spend time with your family. Help them. Help Anne’s family. Help by not being a burden to this community.”

  I feel like a scolded child.

  “At least tell me what you can about the case,” I say. “Anything new?”

  “No.”

  “No, there’s nothing new? Or no, you won’t tell me?”

  “Go home, Rory,” Purvis says. “You look like you’ve been shot at and missed, and shat at and hit.” He scrunches up his nose and says, “And you smell like a tequila distillery.”

  Purvis starts up the steps to the police station. I head toward my truck, and then I hear Purvis’s voice. “One other thing, Rory?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t go trying to solve this thing by yourself,” Purvis says. “I know how you operate. And if I hear one witness saying that you’re snooping around and asking questions, I’ll throw your ass in jail faster than you can draw your pistol. From what I hear, that’s pretty fast.”

  Chapter 23

  I RUN MY paint roller over the wall of my temporary home, filling in the last empty spot of white Sheetrock with a pale blue-gray color.

  “You about ready to take a break?” Dad calls from the porch.

  I set the roller down, inspect my work, and then head outside. I’ll need to go over the walls again and touch up spots, but all in all, the paint job is a big improvement.

  Dad is sitting on the porch, eating a sandwich and sipping from a glass of sweet tea. I join him in the other lawn chair. My arms are speckled with paint, but it feels good to be doing something useful. Anything to take my mind off my troubles.

  It’s a beautiful day, with the sky blue from horizon to horizon. Mom is over by the ranch house, about two hundred yards away, hanging clothes on the line.

  Supposedly, Dad and I were going to paint the casita walls together. But I knew I’d be doing 90 percent of the work. I don’t mind, though. The most important thing is that I have my father as company.

  It’s been
four days since my conversation with DeAndre Purvis. I took a day to drive down to McAllen to pick up some of my stuff, and I spent the rest of the time helping Dad on the ranch. Last night I went to Anne’s parents’ house. I apologized profusely for what happened at the funeral. They were quick to forgive me, putting all the blame on Cal. They don’t like him much more than I do.

  I take a bite of my sandwich and tell Dad that things are looking good in the casita.

  “Good,” Dad says, and he pats my knee like he did when I was growing up.

  The view from my porch is spectacular. The building is positioned on a small rise, allowing us to see the ranch house and barn in the foreground and sprawling pastures in the background.

  Inside the casita, the paint fumes were strong, but out here, the scent of fresh-cut hay outweighs everything.

  It’s nice to be home.

  “Who’s that?” Dad says, pointing to a vehicle coming up the gravel road leading to the ranch house.

  I squint. It looks like a Ford F-150, and as it gets closer, I can tell it’s practically identical to mine.

  The truck pulls up in front of the house. Mom points to the casita, and the Ford begins to wind its way up the gravel path.

  My old boss, the lieutenant from the Waco office, steps out. He’s dressed for duty in his tan pants, white shirt, brown tie, cowboy boots, and cowboy hat. There’s a silver star pinned to his breast like the one a sheriff in an old Western wears. It’s the same getup I’m used to wearing on the job; western business attire is the standard uniform of the Texas Rangers.

  “Well, looks like y’all got the right idea out here,” Lieutenant Ted Creasy says. “You just need you a couple bottles of beer to make this picture complete.”

  “It ain’t quittin’ time yet,” Dad says.

  “It’s five o’clock somewhere,” Creasy says.

  I shake hands with my former boss and invite him to sit in my seat.

  “No, that’s okay,” he says. “I’ll just stand a bit. I’ve been sitting in that car all doggone day.”

  “How are you, Ted?”

  “Oh, busier than a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest,” Creasy says.

  Ted Creasy is a big man who once played college football. But time and his administrative job have taken their toll, and now he has a sizable belly riding over the top of his big Texas-shaped belt buckle. He has a friendly demeanor and a Texas drawl to end all drawls. I’ve always looked up to him. Creasy is pushing fifty and plans to retire soon. In the past, he has encouraged me to take the lieutenant’s exam and replace him as the head of the Waco office, when the time comes. But since the shooting of Wyatt Guthrie, he hasn’t mentioned it.

  Creasy expresses his condolences about Anne, and the three of us shoot the breeze for a few minutes. Dad seems to sense his cue, so he rises and says he is going to head on back to the house and let the two of us talk. He pops a toothpick between his teeth, climbs into his old Chevy Silverado, and drives toward home.

  Creasy settles into the empty seat and looks at me with sincere concern.

  “How you holding up, partner?”

  “I guess I’m holding up okay, considering.”

  “I’ve got some good news.”

  “Yeah?”

  “We’re moving you back up to Waco, effective immediately.”

  “Really?” I ask, genuinely shocked.

  “Yep. As soon as you’re ready to go back to work.”

  I thought the worst when I saw Creasy’s car coming up the drive.

  “I thought you were coming here to give me hell,” I say. “Or fire me.”

  “Sorry to disappoint,” Creasy says.

  “You heard about what happened at Anne’s funeral?” I ask, studying his face. I’d rather get a good read on my boss’s reaction to the bad news than have him hear it somewhere else.

  But Creasy says, “I sure did. Got a call from DeAndre Purvis yesterday afternoon.”

  Now this made sense. Purvis complained, and Creasy was putting me back to work so I’d stay away from Anne’s investigation. Creasy wasn’t doing me any favors. He wanted to rein me in. Keep an eye on me.

  They couldn’t have one of their Rangers going rogue, could they?

  Chapter 24

  I FEEL A swelling of frustration toward DeAndre Purvis. Not only will Purvis not tell me any details about the investigation, but he went running to my boss like a school yard tattletale.

  “Look, bud,” Creasy says, “this is a good thing. That police chief down in McAllen is real happy about how you saved the day down there. So you’re in the good graces of the folks at headquarters right now. And now the hullabaloo with the Guthrie family has died down here. That thing at the funeral don’t look good, but that’s understandable considering what you’re going through.”

  “So either I come back to work or—”

  “There ain’t no either-or about it. Whether you come back to work or not, you’ve got to keep your nose out of this investigation. Sorry, partner.”

  I try to weigh my options and realize I have none.

  “Hell, you know a defense lawyer worth his salt would have a field day with any evidence you provide,” Creasy says. “A good lawyer will get it thrown out faster than small-town gossip. The less involvement you have in the case, the better.”

  I know he’s right.

  “You best let these cops do their jobs,” Creasy says, “and you come back to work and do yours.”

  I surprise myself by letting myself get excited about going back to work. I needed Creasy to talk some sense into me. And after so much hardship, maybe this is my first step on a road back to normalcy.

  “All right, boss,” I say. “I can start tomorrow.”

  “That’s what I like to hear,” Creasy says, and slaps me on the back.

  Within minutes of Creasy leaving, as I’m getting ready to touch up my paint job, my phone rings. It’s my brother Jake.

  “Mom and Dad say your boss stopped by the house,” Jake says, his voice raised with hope. “Good news or bad?”

  “Good.”

  “All right!” Jake exclaims.

  Jake says he’s going to call Chris, and they’re going to take me out tonight to the Pale Horse, a roadhouse bar off the highway outside of town. Jake says he’s going to call as many of my friends as he can think of.

  The thought of being the center of attention makes me cringe. At the moment, I’d rather just stay in my new one-bedroom house and read a book. I’ve got the new John Grisham, and I’d love nothing more than to escape for a few hours in someone else’s story.

  “That’s not necessary,” I say.

  “No way,” Jake says. “You’re coming out. This town hasn’t had any good news in a while. We need something to celebrate.”

  “It’s pretty sad if my return warrants a celebration.”

  “Considering what this town has been through, we’ll take what we can get.”

  I hang up the phone with a smile on my face.

  But then I think of Anne—the way she looked on Freddy’s examination table, covered in dried blood—and I feel guilty for wanting anything good for myself.

  Under other circumstances, Anne might have come with us to the bar to celebrate my return to the Waco office. She might have toasted my homecoming. We might have shared a dance.

  And maybe, if I was brave enough, that night might have been the night I told her I was still in love with her.

  Chapter 25

  THE BAR IS everything a Texas roadhouse should be. There’s a stage where a band is setting up and an open hardwood floor with plenty of room for line dancing. There are pool tables, dartboards, arcade games, and a big mechanical bull.

  I haven’t been here in years, but it doesn’t look like a single thing in the place has changed.

  My high school buddy Darren Hagar, who bought the place a year ago, is behind the bar, and he tells my brothers and me that our first round is on the house.

  “In that case,” Jake says,
“how about a round of your top-shelf tequila?”

  “No way,” I say quickly, thinking about my night with Sara Beth—what I can remember of it.

  My other brother—always the responsible one—also objects. We settle on a pitcher of beer. Freddy Hernandez comes in, looking strange in a plaid shirt and jeans instead of the lab coat I usually see him wear. Other friends arrive, and soon there is a small crowd gathered around a cluster of tables. Sara Beth and Patty arrive, both wearing jeans and cowboy boots.

  “I’ve got school tomorrow,” Sara Beth says, “but I wanted to stop by for a bit.”

  I want to be kind to Sara Beth, so I do my best not to send her any signals. As the conversation unfolds, I find myself chatting more with Patty.

  Patty looks gorgeous. Her hair is curled and her mascara makes the green in her eyes stand out. But no matter how pretty she looks, I know that I’m just not ready to start something new with a woman right now.

  “When do I get to meet your fiancé?” I ask.

  Patty holds up her left hand to reveal no rings on her fingers.

  “If you’re ever in Dallas,” she says, “you can find him up there. Just keep an eye out for the trashiest-looking redhead you’ve ever seen, and he’ll be there fawning all over her.”

  I tell her I’m sorry to hear that, and Patty gives me an abbreviated version of what happened. Long story short: her ex-fiancé is an asshole.

  “You doing okay?” I ask.

  “It hurts,” she says, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, a habit I always found endearing. “But he wasn’t good for me. I think I dodged a bullet.”

  Patty’s face turns pale.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “That’s the wrong expression to use right now.”

  She looks mortified, and I tell her not to worry about it. Patty is one of the sweetest people I’ve ever known, and I hate to see her feeling like she just put her foot in her mouth.

  She blinks back tears of embarrassment and then excuses herself. She finds Sara Beth, and I can tell Patty is explaining what happened. Sara Beth comforts her. I pretend I’m not watching them.