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thrown some things in a small bag, we skirted around the body of Sydney Fox. A coroner had a bright light on her, and a tech was taking pictures. It was only then that I realized she’d been hit in the forehead twice, two wounds three inches apart.
    I remembered the pace of the shots, how quick and crisp they—
    A male voice called out, “Dr. Cross?”
    I slowed near Naomi’s car and saw a big, athletic guy in jeans and a black hoodie climbing from a gray Dodge pickup. He wore a badge on a chain around his neck, and he jogged over to us.
    “Detective Guy Pedelini,” he said, smiling and extending his hand. “Stark County Sheriff’s Office. An honor to meet you, sir.”
    “You too, Detective Pedelini,” I said, shaking his hand.
    “Kind of outside your jurisdiction, aren’t you, Guy?” asked Naomi coolly.
    Pedelini sobered, said, “Just paying my respects to your famous uncle, Counselor. But now that I’m here, can you tell me what happened?”
    “A highly skilled rifleman in an old white Impala killed the wrong woman,” I said, and then I described what we’d heard yelled just before the shots.
    The sheriff’s detective had gone stern, his full attention focused on me.
    “Why do you say he’s highly skilled?”
    “He was using a bolt-action rifle, not a semi or a pump, and he managed to put two rounds into Ms. Fox’s forehead before she hit the ground,” I said.
    “A hunter,” Pedelini said.
    “Or military trained,” I said. “Know any racists that fit the bill and own a beater Impala?”
    The detective thought about that before shaking his head. “There are a couple of avowed racists around who drive beat-up old white cars and a fair number of decent hunters and ex-military types, but no one who’s capable of that kind of shooting. I mean, he’d have to have sniper training, wouldn’t he?”
    “Makes sense,” I said.
    “Why are you so interested in this, Guy?” Naomi said.
    “Someone tries to kill a material witness in a heinous murder case that went down in my jurisdiction, I’m interested, Counselor,” Pedelini said.
    “Why would you care if I was shot?” Patty Converse said. “I’m a witness for the defense. You think Stefan’s guilty.”
    “I do,” Pedelini agreed. “I think he’s guilty as sin. But that doesn’t stop me from being concerned about the safety of everyone else. See, Ms. Converse, I don’t want there to be any doubt about this trial. I want the judge and jury to hear both sides fully and then deliberate and condemn your fiancé, put him in Central Prison over in Raleigh, and get him in line for a lethal injection.”

CHAPTER 19
     
    IT WAS PAST eleven when Naomi pulled up and parked in front of Aunt Connie’s bungalow. I climbed out, meaning to head for my old house and my family. But I saw that the lights were all out there. Bree opened the front door to my aunt’s place.
    I’d called Bree within minutes of Sydney Fox’s death, but we’d agreed it was better that she stay where she was while I talked to the police.
    Bree hugged me, kissed me, and said, “Your aunt figured you’d all be starving, so she’s been cooking and consoling.”
    “Who’s she consoling?”
    “Ethel Fox,” Bree said. “Sydney’s mother. She and Connie are friends.”
    “How’s the mom taking it?”
    “Disbelief. Devastation. Shock. Sydney was her only daughter. Her husband passed ten years ago, and her son lives out in California. I don’t know what she’d do if your aunts weren’t here.”
    I put my arm around her shoulder, and we followed Naomiand Patty up into the house. Aunt Connie kept her home spotless, but it was by no means a cold or sterile place. The furniture was warm and cozy, and there were pictures of her and her friends and her children, Pinkie and Karen, everywhere. I couldn’t find one where my aunt wasn’t beaming or hugging someone.
    Like I said, she never, ever met a stranger.
    I could see Aunt Connie in the kitchen, wearing pink bunny