“Right. I was five years old, and my brother loved me so much that he put an arrow through my cat in honor of my fourth birthday. I’m sure he would have done the noble thing and gone to prison to save me.”

“You did it. You did the murders. Don’t you remember the blood?”

I did remember the blood.

I just didn’t remember the events that led up to the spilling of it.

Had I shot my parents? Gotten hold of a gun somehow, and pulled the trigger? It happened all time.

One victim? That could be an accident. But two? Possible, but not very likely.

My stomach roiled.

“Don’t call me again,” I said evenly, “and don’t come near me. I didn’t shoot Mom and Dad, but I won’t hesitate to shoot you if you come near me again.”

“Sweet dreams, Mary Josephine. And remember what I said. There’s a way into your apartment. I’ll prove it.”

The line went dead.

I set the receiver down with a thunk.

Call Detective Crowley.

I thought Nick was back, until I realized the voice had come from within my own head.

I dug out Crowley’s card.

Stared at it.

I couldn’t do it.

Scared as I was, I couldn’t do it.

Not yet, anyway.

Crowley and I had been spending way too much time together lately. First, the incident with Bert. Then Sheila. Then Heather stabbing me.

I had to be losing credibility with the guy, if I’d ever had any in the first place.

Tell him about Lillian, the voice insisted, and Geoff’s note on the sign-in sheet at the nursing home. Tell him how Geoff tried to tamper with your IV bag that night in your room.

I’d told Tucker those things, believing he was a cop. That he’d make a report. For all I knew, the police were still completely in the dark.

Tell him.

I dialed Detective Crowley’s number.

“Guess who,” I said, when he answered.

“I just saw you on TV,” Crowley drawled in response. “You’re that little girl who was abducted down in Cactus Bend, a month or so after the Mayhugh murders.”

I bit my lower lip, closed my eyes. “Yes.”

Long, pensive silence. “What can I do for you, Mojo? Or is it Mary Jo?”

“It’s Mojo.”

“Well, then, Mojo, what is it this time? Please tell me you haven’t stumbled across yet another crime victim, because that would make me feel real suspicious.”

So much for the wisdom of the still, small voice.

“My foster mother—Lillian Travers—was murdered.”

“I see,” Crowley said. “She was buried today, wasn’t she? Saw that on the news, too.”

“Yes, but—”

“And you believe she was murdered.”

“I know she was murdered. And I know who did it. Furthermore, the same person tried to kill me, too, while I was in the hospital.”