But if she happened to be BK, or had information that could be helpful to his investigation, he needed her cooperation. Six people had died, Grace could be in danger, and criminal fraud had been committed.

If she refused to answer his questions?

He’d play hardball.

At the door to her unit, he stopped and pressed the bell.

Thirty seconds passed.

He rang again.

Nothing.

But she was here.

Per the salon owner, whenever she had a late-afternoon/evening shift like today, she always slept in. Or so she’d told her boss.

Nate resorted to knocking. Not his first choice, since that would draw more attention to the presence of law enforcement, but if she wasn’t going to answer the bell, he had no choice.

“Ms. Jordan, I know you’re home. If necessary, I’m prepared to wait here until you leave for work.”

After a brief delay, a lock flipped inside and the door opened.

The woman who answered didn’t look anything like the photo on the driver’s license he’d pulled up after the salon owner gave him her real name and other vital statistics. Her blond hair was uncombed, she wasn’t wearing a speck of makeup, and oversized glasses gave her an owlish appearance.

“Sheriff Cox, ma’am. May I speak with you for a few minutes?”

“Why?”

“I believe you have information about a case we’re working on.”

She tucked a lank strand of hair behind her ear. “What kind of case?”

“I’ll be happy to discuss it inside.”

After a brief hesitation, she pulled the door wide and stepped back.

Nate entered and gave the space a quick sweep.

The unit was small. One bedroom, based on the two doors that opened off the short hall. Furnishings were sparse and utilitarian. No personal items were on display, nor any photos that would identify the occupant.

It was the sort of place inhabited by a person who preferred to remain anonymous and wanted to be ready to disappear at a moment’s notice.

Given Thompson’s history, the bland, bare-bones decor wasn’t surprising.

She remained near the closed front door, tugging at the hem of the loose T-shirt she wore over a pair of leggings, tension radiating from her.

“For the record, I know your real name and a bit of your history, Ms. Thompson.”

No reply. Nor did she invite him to sit.

Fine.

He pulled out his notebook and remained standing. “I understand you’re acquainted with Dave Mullins.”

The knuckles on the hand gripping the bottom of her T-shirt whitened. “He used to be a client.”

“He says he was more than that.”

Her nostrils flared. “He told you about us?”

“Among other things.”

A muscle in her jaw clenched. “Why are you here? Our relationship ended years ago.”

“But he came to see you recently. Told you about his dilemma.”

She assessed him, as if gauging how much to reveal. “Yes.”

“Did you call in the tip to us about his relationship with Mavis Templeton and Fred Wilson?”

“Why would I do that?”