“I assured him that the government wouldn’t do that . . . but look what happened . . . My daughter was involved in his death.” He met her gaze as he whispered the last words. “I don’t know if that is irony or simply tragic.”

Mercy didn’t contradict him. He was talking, and she wanted to keep it going. “How long have you known him?” she asked in a quiet voice.

Karl shrugged one shoulder. “He approached me years ago—decades ago—for help in getting off the grid. I can’t remember who sent him my way. He didn’t have any skills I could use, so I gave him some basic information and let him go. I still get a couple of people every year who come to me to get started. I can tell who will succeed and who won’t.”

“Which category was Victor?”

Her father gave a short laugh. “I expected him to turn tail and go back to wherever he came from within a year. He surprised me. He worked hard, I sold him a few necessities, and he made it out of sheer luck.”

“You don’t know where he was from?”

“Nope. Never asked.”

“You sold him some equipment? How did he pay you?”

He frowned. “Cash. No barter.”

Mercy knew that was unusual. Barter was the most common currency in her father’s world. She paused and asked delicately, “Did he seem to have a lot of money?”

He stared, comprehension growing in his gaze. “You mentioned a bank robbery.”

“Yes. An old one. But recently—”

“I heard about the skeleton and bank bags. You think Victor knew something about that?”

“That’s what we were trying to find out when he fired at us.”

“I’m sorry about your friend Eddie.”

Mercy grew still as his words spawned a hole of anger in her chest. He knew about Eddie before I mentioned him. He waits until now? She wondered how much he’d already known before she approached him. Am I just a game to him? Someone to pluck for information?

“Thank you. He’s going to be fine.”

“I heard.”

“It could have been me.” She held his gaze, wondering what he’d say.

“Coulda.” He didn’t look away.

He’s done talking about Victor Diehl. “Why are you at the doctor’s? Are you ill? You seem thin.”

An invisible wall shot up between them. “I’m sixty-five. I go to the doctor when your mother makes me.”

“Why’d she send you? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He dropped her gaze.

Liar.

He has pride. Heaven forbid I rattle his ego.

He hung on to his pride as tightly as he hung on to his anger toward her.

He turned his back and opened his truck door, signaling their conversation was over, and she stepped back.

Dad, one day you’ll learn that protecting your pride isn’t worth the price.

Truman had been about to sit in a chair across from Mercy’s desk, but when he spotted her bleak gaze, he walked around and pulled her into a hug.

What on earth happened?

“You look like your best friend died,” Truman said.

She nestled into him, burying her face in his shoulder. They were alone in her office, and the door was open, but no one was in sight. She sighed, and he felt her muscles relax.

“How do you do this to me?”

“Do what?” he asked.

“Before you got here, I was ready to go home and crawl in bed . . . maybe binge watch something and eat ice cream.” She raised her head and looked him in the eye. “But it’s as if I get energy from simply touching you. I feel like a vampire, sucking away your personal stamina.”

“I’ll let you know if I get completely drained.”

Her lips curved. “My point is that you make me feel better by simply appearing. Maybe I should hire you to pop into my office once a day.”

“Why are you so exhausted today?”

“It’s been one of those days. I can’t get Eddie out of my mind, and I talked with my father . . . and I have so much work to do and not enough help.”

Aha. She spoke with her father.

“A typical day. What happened with Karl?”

She pulled out of his arms and gave him a peck on the lips. “Have a seat.”

“You need me to sit down. That’s not good.” But he sat, and she did the same.

She leaned her chin on her hands as she stared across the desk at him. “Victor Diehl called him twice in the days before he died.”

“Why?”

“Someone told Diehl the FBI was coming for his guns and land, and he wanted my dad to stop it through me.”

“No wonder Diehl came out with guns blazing when you three showed up.”

“I’ve been sitting here thinking about my father’s explanation, and now I’m wondering if we were set up,” she said quietly. “It can’t be a coincidence that Victor was warned of the FBI before we showed up.”

Truman’s back stiffened as surprise shot through him. “What? Someone wanted one or all of you shot?”

If I find out that is true . . .

“My father told me Diehl isn’t quite right in the head. He wasn’t surprised at all that Diehl flew off the handle when he saw us. It’s possible someone else expected the same thing.”

“What led you to Diehl in the first place?”

“A local came to the FBI with information.”

“He walked in on his own?” Was that more than luck?

“Yep. Said the news about the money bags reminded him of an incident he had with Diehl a long time ago.”

Truman let the information percolate in his brain for a long moment. “Any way to back up your informant’s story?”

“I’ve been trying. It happened too long ago, and the other witness is conveniently dead.”

The two of them sat in silence.

“You think someone is trying to lead the FBI in the wrong direction? And get you killed at the same time?” The thought made bile stir in Truman’s stomach. “The FBI must be getting too close. Someone wants the investigation stopped.”

“Why?”

She knew why as well as he did, but he suspected she wanted him to say it out loud. “The same reason most crimes are committed. Money.”

“The robbery money has to be all spent by now . . . or nearly spent,” Mercy pointed out.

“Then the reason is the protection of someone’s ass. He doesn’t want to end up in prison.”

“You’re right.” Mercy leaned back in her chair and rubbed at her bloodshot eyes.

“You need to go back to the person that led you to Victor Diehl.”

“That would be Larry Tyler. Who lives off the grid about an hour away from here.”

“Mercy?” Jeff knocked on the frame of her open door. “Hey, Truman.”

Truman lifted a hand in greeting.

“We got the cell phone records from Tabitha Huff’s wireless provider,” Jeff stated.

The murdered young reporter’s face popped into Truman’s mind. Something he wouldn’t forget for a long while. If ever.

Jeff glanced at Truman, clearly hesitant to speak in front of an outsider. “I’ll step out for a few moments,” Truman offered.

“Stay, Truman,” Mercy ordered. “You were the first officer at the scene.”

As if he didn’t know. She’d said it to remind Jeff that Truman was involved.

Jeff’s face cleared. “You’ll never guess who she had multiple phone calls with.”

“Just tell me.”

“Two Rivers Correctional Institution.”

Mercy nearly rose out of her chair. “Shane Gamble.”

“The first call is from her to the prison in the evening of the day you visited him.”

“Something I said stirred him up.” Mercy spoke rapidly, lost in thought but with excitement growing on her face. “She said her source reached her through Twitter, right? Whatever he told her pushed her immediately into action.”

“What did you tell Gamble?” Truman asked. “What would make him reach out to a tabloid?”

Mercy stared back at him. “I’m not sure. It must have been something about the skeletal remains that meant more to him than he let on.”

“But what was Tabitha’s purpose?” asked Jeff. “You said she didn’t have an official assignment here, so Gamble must have sent her on a mission.”

“I need to speak to him.” The determination on Mercy’s face told Truman she wanted to go head-to-head with the convicted felon again.

Jeff checked the time. “It’s too late today. Tomorrow you can drive out there. I’ll set it up.”

“I won’t let him in my head this time,” she promised.

Truman wished he could be a fly on the wall when Mercy told Shane Gamble the reporter had been murdered.

Did he purposefully send Tabitha to her death?

Picturing the close-range shot to the reporter’s face made anger burn through Truman. No one deserved that kind of death. Especially a young girl.

Shane Gamble has some explaining to do.

NINETEEN

It was the same interview room as last time.

Shane Gamble wore the same prison garb and rested his hands in the same way on the same table.

Mercy had fancied up a bit. A little extra mascara, a neutral lip pencil that she’d never used, long beachy-looking waves in her hair that took twenty minutes with a curling iron she’d had to borrow from Kaylie. White blouse, jeans, boots, and a sporty violet suede jacket she kept for special occasions.

The unusual sensation of the thin layer of color on her lips was distracting.

Am I trying to flirt? Hope I distract him and get him to spill his story?

She sucked at flirting.

But she’d use whatever weapons she had, whether they worked or not.

“Nice to see you again, Special Agent Kilpatrick.” The cadence of Gamble’s speech was still slow and relaxed, but she knew he considered every word before it came out of his mouth.