"So young," Cynthia murmured. "And now that poor girl has to give birth to a fatherless baby. I can't even imagine it at her age. And you never had a chance to talk to Billy." She hugged him again but after a few moments he pulled back.

"I have to go," he said. "There are questions that need answers." Cynthia looked disappointed but then nodded.

"I guess this is how it's going to be-once you're sheriff."

"Don't wait up," he said as he left, knowing she would.

"I think I'll call Randy," she said.

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During the short drive to Lydia Larkin's quarters, Dean's brain pounded with the question of the siren that preceded the horrible accident-and his glimpse of a white vehicle. He tried to formulate a non-accusatory question but the image of Billy Langstrom's crushed body kept getting in the way. He'd ask her outright.

He thought she might be sleeping, but her place was ablaze with lights, and she met him at the door as if expecting him. Her eyes were red, her red hair wet and disheveled, and she wore a flannel bathrobe and was barefoot. Now that she was standing before him, he was aware of her height. Lydia was not as tall as Jennifer Radisson, but only by an inch or two. There was a tall glass of clear liquid in her hand.

"You here to gloat?" she asked, holding open the door and letting him enter.

"No. Just to ask questions." He sat on a sofa while she settled into a leather rocker where she'd evidently been sitting, as there was a nearly empty pint of vodka on the table next to her.

The room was tastefully done in a Southwestern motif with R.

C. Gorman prints adorning the sand-colored walls. The tile floor was dressed with a Native American rug that didn't look like a Target sale item. She lifted the bottle as an offer and then noticed it was nearly empty. He was shaking his head no when she said, "There's one just like it in the kitchen. Help yourself." She poured the last of the liquor into her glass.

"You're drunk."

She shook her head. "Not drunk enough. I screwed up with a capital F, didn't I?"

"You had a bad night."

"What did you tell Fitzgerald? Do I still have a job?"

She was a different person, different from the Lydia Larkin who'd busted him for speeding and far different from the frightened girl who reluctantly descended to the wreck. He wondered which was the real person. "I told him nothing," he answered. "There was nothing to tell."

She let out a deep sigh. "I guess I owe you one. What will it be?"




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