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now.” He was so much taller than she, he found himself speaking to the part in her hair. “And more than strong enough to help if you’ll just let me.”

Chapter Five
First Clown:
    What is he that builds stronger than either the mason, the shipwright, or the carpenter?
    Second Clown:
    The gallows-maker; for that frame outlives a thousand tenants.
    —William Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act V, Scene 1
    Following a knock, Justine Wofford walked into the interview room, much to Ross’s surprise.
    The walls of the cramped and dingy room squeezed, and a spasm of regret passed through him. If he hadn’t gotten sick as he had, would his plan have borne fruit by now? Would he have been able to convince her he had broken off what they had in order to start a new type of relationship, one conducted in the open, or would she have turned her back on him forever?
    Months after the fact, it was far too late to think of such things, especially with his cousin’s life and freedom on the line.
    “Thought you were taking a few days off,” he said to cover his discomfort.
    Justine looked a little washed-out, but her dark eyes were focused. She looked more alert than she had any right to be, given her circumstances. More appealing, too, with her dark hair long and loose about her shoulders—still reminding him, as ever, of his first crush, Wonder Woman.
    Justine slipped inside, moving with an easy grace that belied both her injury and height. In her hand, she carried several yellow pencils, still smelling of the sharpener, and a colorful pair of spiral notebooks, the kind kids went through by the handful every school year. “After you stopped by to see me, I decided it might be best to handle this myself before I head home. If you don’t mind, Miss Thibodeaux.”
    “Fine with me,” Laney said as her gaze drifted over the sheriff’s informal attire, the total lack of makeup, and the bandage on the side of her head. Looking concerned, she added, “Are you okay? I heard someone hit you yesterday when you went to talk to Caleb’s mom.”
    “I had a good doctor.” Justine flicked a barely perceptible smile at Ross. “But thanks for asking.”
    “I’ve been there,” Laney added, sounding nervous for someone who had claimed to want to talk. “That’s a pretty dicey neighborhood.”
    “Someone should tell the cops,” Justine said dryly as she gestured toward two of the four chairs around the table.
    Once all three were seated, the sheriff flipped open a notebook, but kept it in her lap, out of sight beneath the table’s edge. “I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about Caleb’s death, Miss Thibodeaux. I’m sure it’s been horribly upsetting, losing three people so close to you within such a short time.”
    Laney folded her arms across her stomach, her body rocking as she spoke. “I wish…I still can’t believe they’re all gone. I want them back. I want everything back the way it used to be.”
    “I understand what that’s like.” Justine’s dark eyes were sympathetic. “I lost my husband last year, and I still imagine I can see him. I catch glimpses sometimes, in the barn, out on the back porch…”.
    Ross looked away, troubled by the pain in her voice, the way it lived in her eyes. It was a pain he still caught sight of inthe mirror sometimes, a pain he doubted he would ever shake completely. The broken echo of his own voice filled the corridor of a Houston trauma center.
    I never should have let her leave angry. Never should’ve let her leave.
    He pulled himself back, aggravated to think Justine Wofford might stoop to using her familiarity with grief to lower his cousin’s and his own defenses. Because Justine knew about his wife, Anne. Knew because he’d brought up her death in the hope that Justine might open up about her loss, too. He’d hoped to bring light and fresh air to the deep, black river he sensed flowing just beneath her surface.
    Instead, she’d shut him down, after he’d handed her this unholy