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  When I’ve convinced myself that I’m okay, I rise out of bed and walk to the bathroom. I leave the light off, but my curtain is cracked and there’s enough light coming in from the parking lot to see. I splash water on my face. I cup my hands and take a drink.

  I walk back to my bed and check the time on my phone. It’s two o’clock in the morning. I wish I could talk to Willow, but there’s no way she’ll be awake. And maybe that’s not the best idea anyway. She’s already worried about me. She didn’t like the idea of me going back to work so soon after the shooting.

  Now I’m starting to agree with her—maybe I’m not ready.

  This case has been a little more trying on my nerves than I anticipated. A few days have passed since I jammed with Dale and Walt, with Ariana and me working long hours and making almost no progress. We’ve interviewed all the town council members as well as all the people who saw Susan Snyder in her final days. We’ve done a million phone interviews, talking to her family members and her clients in faraway cities. Sometimes motive is irrelevant—the evidence is what matters. But in this case, we have no evidence.

  I’m sitting in my bed, in my dark room, thinking about all this, when I hear something outside my door. Voices talking low, trying to be quiet. The fact that I can hear them at all tells me they’re very close. I hear a sound like someone spraying an aerosol can.

  Maybe spray paint.

  I creep over to the window and peek through the crack in the curtains. Two men stand next to my truck. One is kneeling by a tire. The other is standing next to the driver’s side, spraying the door with paint. As far as I can tell, both are wearing masks, just like the guys in my nightmare.

  I grab my pistol and unlatch the safety chain on the door as quietly as possible. I’m wearing boxer shorts and nothing else, but I don’t have time to get dressed.

  I throw open the door and point my gun.

  “Freeze!” I say, my voice raised but not yelling.

  My body is inside the room, but my gun hand is sticking out. This is a careless mistake because I haven’t anticipated that there might be a third guy with them, hiding next to my door.

  A tire iron swings down from behind the door jamb. I pull my hand back but not fast enough. The iron connects with the barrel of my SIG Sauer, and I feel the vibrations up to my shoulder.

  The gun tumbles out of my grasp.

  Chapter 26

  BEFORE I CAN reach for my gun, the assailant kicks the pistol, and it goes sliding off the porch and onto the gravel. But this leaves him exposed, standing right in front of me with his legs spread at an unbalanced angle.

  I burst out of the motel room like a defensive tackle going after the quarterback, and I slam the guy down onto the wooden porch. He’s bigger than me, stronger, but I’m on top of him, and that gives me an advantage. He flails with the tire iron, but I grab his wrist, twist his arm, and pin it down against the wooden planks of the deck. He swings his free fist into my ribs, but he’s fighting from a bad position and can’t put much behind the punch.

  I drive my fist into the center of his mask, just below the eyes. The cartilage of his nose crunches audibly, and the back of his head crashes against the porch. His muscles go weak. He’s not unconscious, but he’s stunned.

  The guy with the spray paint charges toward us. I catch a glimpse of the other guy pulling a knife out of my truck tire.

  The one with the paint can presses the dispenser and a cloud of red fills the air. I close my eyes and throw my arms up to shield my face. I can feel the cool mist around me. I roll away in the direction of my pistol, then scramble onto my hands and knees. I risk opening my eyes and spot my gun lying in the gravel. I grab it and spin around, the gun raised, my knees sliding on the rocks.

  The three men are running away.

  They’re not stupid—three on one might be good odds, but not when I have a gun.

  I sprint after them. The gravel digs into my bare feet. The men hop a waist-high, chain-link fence at the back of the property. I launch over the fence like an Olympic hurdler. I cross a street and look around. We’re in a residential area now. There isn’t much moonlight, and no streetlights, so it’s hard to see. I spin around, looking, listening.

  An engine fires up a block away. Headlights ignite the darkness, and tires squeal. I can make out the shape of a truck, but I can’t see it clearly. The truck heads toward Main Street, and I run back through the parking lot of the motel. If it turns right on Main Street, I might be able to cut it off.

  But when I get to the sidewalk, the truck is heading the other way. It’s too far away to get a good look at it. I can’t see the license plate. I can’t tell the make and model. It could be one of McCormack’s trucks, but I can’t be sure. It’s not like there’s a shortage of pickup trucks in Texas.

  I watch until its taillights disappear from sight. Then it occurs to me I’m standing on the sidewalk on Main Street holding a pistol and wearing nothing but my underwear. Luckily, there are no cars on the street at this time of night.

  As I walk back toward my room, I hear the hiss of air wheezing out of my punctured tire. There’s enough ambient light to read what’s been written on the side of my truck:

  Go home law dog

  Chapter 27

  I WALK BACK inside my motel room and flip on the light. I pick up my phone and call Ariana’s cell.

  “It’s three in the morning,” she says. “What the hell’s going on?”

  “Can you come to my motel?” I say.

  She hesitates, and I realize maybe she thinks I’m propositioning her.

  “Three thugs just assaulted me,” I say.

  “I’ll be right over.”

  I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and see red paint freckling my face and frosting my hair.

  “Also,” I say, before she hangs up, “do you have any mineral spirits?”

  I manage to pull on a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt before she shows up five minutes later, riding in on her motorcycle and wearing jeans and an AC/DC T-shirt. She pulls off her helmet, and her hair falls down around her shoulders. Although the jeans and T-shirt she normally wears aren’t exactly formal dress, the concert T-shirt and free-flowing hair is a look that I haven’t seen before.

  I like it.

  “I would have been here sooner, but I had to look through my garage for this,” she says, handing me a metal container of paint thinner.

  I show her the damage to my truck and explain everything that happened.

  “You’re lucky,” she says.

  “They’re lucky,” I say.

  She gives me a look that says, Don’t be so macho. I can’t help it, though. My adrenaline has finally settled down, but I’m still damn mad.

  The truth is, I was lucky, but so were they. There are a whole lot of other ways it could have gone down that would have ended up much worse for either side. If the tire iron had connected with my wrist, it would have broken bones. And if I had been able to hold on to the gun, I might have ended up shooting the guy.

  Ariana and I take photographs of my truck—it’s a crime scene now—and I get out my fingerprint kit and dust the door and the hubcap. We look around for blood droplets, hoping for some DNA evidence. I’m sure I broke the guy’s nose, but the mask must have kept the blood contained.

  When we’re finished documenting the crime scene, I change the flat tire. I don’t ask for her help, but Ariana gives it anyway. Afterward, as we’re wiping the grease off our hands, we notice the black sky has started to turn blue, and a faint orange glow emanates from the horizon to the east.

  “Ready to get to work?” Ariana says.

  “Hell yes,” I say. “It’s not a good idea to piss off a Texas Ranger.”

  Ariana heads home to get ready for the day, and I stand in the gravel parking lot rubbing paint thinner on my arms and in my hair. Afterward, I go inside and take a shower, scrubbing myself with soap and water to get rid of the solvent smell.

  I’m skinned up in various places:
the bottoms of my feet, my knees, one elbow. I spend a few minutes rinsing the worst of the scrapes with peroxide and putting on Band-Aids.

  As I get dressed—tying my tie, pulling on my boots, positioning my hat, and pinning the star to my chest—I feel like a knight putting on his armor for battle. The last piece is my gun, which I holster at my waist like I’m sheathing a sword into a scabbard. I don’t want to sound melodramatic, but as I’m getting ready for the day, I feel like a lone samurai in a Kurosawa film. The difference is in those films, the samurai or knight or western gunfighter is steely-eyed and ready, determined to overcome the obstacles in front of him.

  But me?

  I’m just weary.

  Part of it, I think, is that the jolt of adrenaline has worn off, and my body feels like it’s ready to crawl back into bed rather than head off to work. But the other part, I realize, is that I just don’t feel ready for this. It’s been less than two weeks since the bank, and this assignment in this supposedly sleepy town might have seemed like a walk in the park at first, but it’s turning out to be anything but.

  There’s something wrong in this town.

  Something rotten.

  When I’m finally ready to start the day, I step out onto the porch, squinting my eyes against the sunrise. It’s as if my senses are on high alert and can’t handle the bright, harsh glare of morning.

  My phone buzzes.

  It’s Willow.

  I love her. I do. But I don’t want her worries about me to fuel the fires of self-doubt I’m feeling.

  If I’m honest with myself, she’s the last person I want to talk to right now.

  Chapter 28

  I THINK ABOUT not taking the call—I’m anxious to get to the police station—but I decide I should answer. I wouldn’t like it if she was blowing off my phone calls, and I want to treat her as I’d like to be treated.

  “I’m glad I caught you,” she says, her voice full of excitement.

  She tells me that Dierks Bentley added an extra date to the tour, making up for a show he canceled last fall when he had the flu.

  “It’s in Albuquerque,” she says. “How far is that from you? Any chance you can come?”

  “It’s a good five hours away,” I say. “Maybe six.”

  “Boy, you really are in the middle of nowhere, aren’t you?”

  I debate whether to tell her about what happened this morning. Part of me doesn’t want her to worry. But the other part of me knows that a healthy relationship is built on open, honest communication.

  No secrets.

  “I don’t want to alarm you,” I say, “but I had some excitement this morning.”

  She can’t believe it. She says she thought this was supposed to be an easy assignment. I can hear the worry in her voice. I don’t mention my nightmare or the way I’m feeling. She’ll worry enough even if she thinks I’m clearheaded and capable of handling myself. If she knows I’m having a crisis of confidence, that will take her anxieties to a new level.

  “Enough about me,” I say. “Tell me the latest with you. How’s the song doing?”

  She seems thankful for the distraction. “Don’t Date a Texas Ranger” is getting all kinds of airplay, she says. Her producer has told her that when her album drops, listeners are going to snatch it up. Buzz about her success is already spreading. She played last night at the Bluebird Café, a famous Nashville music venue, and Kathy Mattea was in the audience and introduced herself afterward. The night before that she was invited to a dinner party at Jennifer Nettles’s house.

  “Wow,” I say. “You’re really rubbing elbows with country music royalty, aren’t you?”

  “Regardless of how the album does, Rory, I really think I could have a life here. Whether I’m the next big thing—like my label keeps saying—or I’m a songwriter for hire, I feel like I belong here in Nashville.”

  With this statement, a moment of silence hangs in the air—a moment full of questions. If she belongs there, what does that mean for us? Even though a few days ago I’d all but made up my mind to apply for the detective job in Nashville, I never mentioned my decision to Willow, and now, with this case, I’m feeling some reluctance to make that commitment.

  “Oh, Rory, what are we going to do?”

  “We’ll figure it out,” I tell Willow. “Just let me get this case resolved and we can have a good long talk about our future.”

  We end the conversation by saying we love each other. Then I drive over to the police station.

  When I walk in the door, the chief says, “I’m still getting calls from that newspaper editor. Honestly, I’m surprised he hasn’t camped out in the lobby.”

  “Not now, Chief. I’ve got more important things on my mind today.”

  “Like what?” he says, and when I brush past him into the station, I know he senses I’m on to something.

  When I get to the conference room, Ariana holds up a piece of paper.

  “This might be our first break in the case,” she says.

  She got a copy of Susan Snyder’s phone records from her cellular provider.

  “Right after Susan called me,” Ariana says, “she made one other call. It was a very brief conversation.”

  “To who?” I say.

  “Tom Aaron.”

  The name sounds familiar, but I can’t remember why.

  “He’s the newspaper editor,” Ariana says. “The one who’s been trying to talk to you ever since you came to town.”

  Chapter 29

  ARIANA AND I walk out to my truck to go find Tom Aaron.

  I hear a group of cars coming down the road from the north. My ears, trained by years with the highway patrol, tell me these engines are going way past the speed limit. Three black vehicles come into view—one of McCormack’s pickup trucks, followed by a brand-new Cadillac Escalade, with another of McCormack’s trucks bringing up the rear.

  “That’s Carson McCormack in the middle,” Ariana says, gesturing to the Escalade. “Heading out of town on business. He doesn’t usually bring his entourage into town.”

  These vehicles are moving in the tight, protective formation the motorcade of a high-profile politician might utilize.

  Who the hell does this Carson McCormack think he is?

  “When he gets back into town,” I say, “I think it’s time to pay him a visit. At the very least, I’d like to take a look around his oil field and see if any of his employees have broken noses.”

  We have no real idea if Carson McCormack or his son had anything to do with Susan Snyder’s death—or what happened to me this morning. Hopefully Ariana is right: this call to the editor might be our first lead.

  When the receptionist at the paper tells us Tom Aaron isn’t in yet today, Ariana says we’ll go to his house. Back in my truck, Ariana gives me directions. In a town like this, not only does everyone know everyone but they also know where everyone lives.

  As we’re driving through the north edge of town, Ariana points to a nice little ranch-style house with a well-kept yard. “That’s where I live,” she says.

  There’s a Prius sitting in the driveway.

  “So you do have another vehicle,” I say, “besides the Harley.”

  “Sometimes it rains,” she says and flashes me a smile.

  Tom Aaron’s large house is two blocks away, right at the edge of the development. From where we park, we can see the property borders the arroyo that limits the town’s expansion—and the rolling brown hills beyond it. The backyard contains not only an elaborate flower and vegetable garden but two additional outbuildings—a greenhouse and a two-story structure with a garage on the lower level.

  A woman works in the garden. In the garage, the reporter type I saw walking out of the town council meeting is leaning under the hood of what looks to be a sixties-era Mustang. What appears to be a tarp-covered jeep is parked next to the classic car.

  The woman looks up from a flower bed and sees us. There’s a radio playing in the garage, and as fate would have it, Willow’s son
g is on.

  “Morning, Jessica,” Ariana says.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” she says, beaming. “Rumor has it this song is about you.”

  She hurries over to us, then pumps my hand and gives me the friendliest greeting I’ve had since arriving in town.

  “I sure am happy to meet you,” she says. “I’m going to buy your girlfriend’s album as soon as it comes out.”

  Jessica Aaron has the tan, muscular arms of a dedicated gardener. Her short hair is streaked with silver, which suits her.

  Tom Aaron approaches, wiping grease off his hands with a rag.

  “I’ve been trying to reach you,” he says.

  “Sorry, Tom,” Ariana says, “we’re not here to answer your questions. We’re here to ask you some questions.”

  There’s a moment of tense silence. I brace for a confrontation, a citation of the First Amendment.

  “I wasn’t calling to interview you,” he says to me. “I have something to tell you.”

  “Okay,” I say. “So tell me.”

  He glances uncomfortably at Ariana.

  “Not in front of her,” he says.

  Chapter 30

  I HAVE A feeling I know what Tom Aaron’s going to say, so I take a chance.

  “Let me guess,” I say to Tom Aaron. “Susan Snyder called you the day before she died and said, ‘I’ve got something important to tell you. Don’t mention it to anyone. I don’t know who can be trusted.’”

  He looks at me, surprised. “I was scheduled to interview her the next day,” he says. “But then I found out she died.”

  “She made the same call to Ariana,” I say. “That’s why I’m here.”

  Tom exhales loudly. “Susan said not to trust anyone, but you’re a Texas Ranger from out of town. If I couldn’t tell you, who could I tell? Sorry,” he says to Ariana, “I just didn’t know who I could trust.”

  “I know the feeling,” she says.

  Jessica invites us inside their beautifully decorated home. Joanna Gaines from Fixer Upper could have designed the interior (Willow likes to watch that show because Chip and Joanna Gaines are from Waco). The wood-textured walls are accented with vintage mirrors and oversized clocks. Open shelves display candleholders, old books, and framed photographs of Tom and Jessica with two good-looking kids, a boy and a girl.