“You have? Nothing’s come through.”

“Coverage is spotty out here.”

“Out where?”

“I’m stranded along the highway. And, God, is it hot. I wish I’d brought some water.”

Already at the end of town, Francesca pulled to the side of the road. “What’s wrong?”

“I was almost to Wickenburg when I picked up a nail. My tire’s flat.”

“You don’t have a spare?”

“I do, but…I don’t know how to change it. I’ve been trying to flag someone down to help me since it happened.”

Francesca turned the air conditioner to low so she could hear over the fan. “No luck?”

“It’s too hot for anyone to feel like stopping. There aren’t many people out, anyway. But I called Butch. He’s coming to get me.”

Butch hated Francesca. He’d only ruin this opportunity, which meant she had to get to Paris before her husband did. “Maybe I can help you change it. Where are you?”

“On the side of the road about twenty minutes east of town. In the Impala.”

Checking for traffic, she eased back onto the road. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Could you bring me some water?” Paris asked.

“Of course,” Francesca agreed, and stopped at the first convenience store she came across.

When Paris saw Francesca’s BMW coming toward her, she waved. She had the stun gun Butch had purchased for her personal safety—along with the handcuffs she planned to put on while Francesca was incapacitated—in her baglike purse, which was slung over one shoulder. The bat lying in the backseat as, supposedly, “evidence” of Dean’s guilt would serve a dual purpose.

She’d use one end to make it appear as if Francesca had been raped, the other to finish her off. The only thing Paris didn’t have handy was the garbage bag hidden in her trunk. But she wouldn’t need that until Francesca was dead. She’d stuff her body in that bag, placing it in the trunk of her own car, and drive the BMW as far into the desert as she could safely walk during the return trip, and the sun would do the rest. Francesca’s body would liquefy in a day, two or three at most, and it would probably take weeks, maybe even months, for someone to find her. There wasn’t much reason for people to be out walking in the desert this time of year. As a matter of fact, it was downright dangerous in these temperatures. Paris was glad she’d remembered to ask Francesca for water. She was going to need it.

The tires of Francesca’s car crunched on the gravel-like dirt as she swung around and parked behind the Impala.

Paris pasted a smile on her face and approached. “Thanks for coming all the way out here,” she said as soon as Francesca opened her door. “Can you believe this? Look at that tire.”

“It’s flat, all right.” Francesca didn’t immediately get out. She glanced around as if checking to be sure they were alone. She was a little leery, but Paris wasn’t worried. She knew how harmless she appeared. Although Francesca wasn’t a big woman, she had Paris beaten by several inches and probably twenty pounds. That wouldn’t make any difference once Paris zapped her, of course, but it meant Francesca would feel more confident that she could defend herself, if need be, than if their sizes were reversed.

That confidence would be her undoing.

“Did you remember the water?” Paris asked. “I’m dying out here.”

She barely refrained from laughing at her own joke, but her preoccupation with water seemed to put Francesca at ease. After digging into a paper sack on her passenger seat, she handed Paris a bottle.

Paris took the time to open it and drink. “Thanks a lot. This is great.”

“No problem.” Francesca pushed her sunglasses higher on the bridge of her nose. “What did you have to show me? Once I take a look, I’ll help you get that tire fixed. Maybe Butch won’t have to come all this way.”

“That would be nice,” Paris said, and took another drink. The less hurried she acted, the more Francesca would trust that she was what she seemed to be—an innocent wife and mother who’d come across the sad proof of her brother’s complicity in murder. “It’s in the backseat.”

When Francesca got out, the BMW dinged to let her know she’d left her keys in the ignition.

Paris made a note of it. In a few minutes, she’d need to be able to drive that car.

“What kind of evidence is it?” Francesca asked.

“A wooden bat,” Paris explained. “But not just any bat. I could be wrong, but it looks as if there’s blood in the crevices. And a couple of long strands of hair are stuck to the end.” That much was true. It just hadn’t been Dean who’d raped and killed with that bat….

“You’re kidding.” Now Francesca didn’t seem frightened at all. She was too eager to become the big shot who solved the Dead Mule Canyon slayings. “Where’d you find it?”

Paris followed her to the Impala. She had to come up with some explanation for why it hadn’t been discovered when the cops did their search, but she’d already decided how to deal with that. “Champ’s coach called to tell me he left his baseball bat at practice a few days ago. I didn’t think that could be true, because I’d seen Champ with his bat since then, but when I drove over to pick it up this morning, I realized he had Dean’s bat.”

“How do you know it was Dean’s?”

“Because we only have two. And Dean etched his name on the handle when he was a little boy. It’s still there.”

As Paris opened the back door, Francesca leaned in to get a closer look. “There’s hair, all right. And I’m positive that’s blood.”

“I told you,” Paris replied, and reached into her purse.

35

Where was Francesca?

When he couldn’t contact her, Jonah had driven hell-bent for Chandler, but she hadn’t answered the door. Fearing she was hurt, he’d broken a window to get in. But she wasn’t there. And if someone had dragged her out of the house, it wasn’t apparent. Her bed was rumpled and unmade, which wasn’t like her, but if she’d been in a hurry, maybe she hadn’t bothered making it.

The only odd thing was the bottle of tequila in the living room. Tequila wasn’t something she’d ever liked. He couldn’t imagine her drinking it, especially alone. But there was only one glass….




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