“I found something in Carly’s backpack, Cord,” Tina said. “Besides ratty underwear, two pairs of jeans that probably came from a thrift store and a couple of T-shirts.”

“What?” Cord demanded. His imagination was in overdrive—he pictured Tina coming across drugs, or the paraphernalia to use them.

“Money,” Tina almost whispered. “A lot of money. In a roll with a rubber band around it. And I’m talking larger bills. Twenties, fifties and up.” Coffee forgotten, she shaped her hands to indicate something about the size of a baseball. “And one of those ultrathin laptops, the kind people wait in line all night to buy. How could she afford something like that, Cord? She didn’t even have food in that backpack, or a toothbrush.”

“Maybe the bankroll used to be thicker,” Cord said, thinking about that expensive laptop. He wasn’t trying to be funny, which was a good thing since nobody was laughing, including him.

“There’s probably a reasonable explanation,” Tina said weakly.

“Right,” Cord said, pulling his phone from his shirt pocket.

“What are you doing?”

“Calling Eli.”

Tina blinked, clearly confused, and Cord realized he hadn’t told her anything about Carly, beyond the fact that she’d needed a respectable place to spend the night.

He returned the phone to his pocket. “According to Carly,” he began, “her mother was someone J.P., Eli and I knew, way back when—and I say was because she died a couple of years ago.” He paused at the sorrowful expression on Tina’s face. “Do you remember a girl named Reba Shannon?” he continued. “She worked at the Painted Pony Motel for about six months, including the summer after we graduated from high school.”

“Vaguely,” Tina said. Then added, “Not really.” A moment later, “The Painted Pony Motel?”

“Yes,” Cord replied, with exaggerated patience.

Tina looked mildly puzzled, then horrified.

Even back in the day, the joint had been something of a rathole, and not many people stayed there, except for low-life types passing through on their way to somewhere else. Or “guests” who wanted a cheap—really cheap—place for a night or two. Or those who didn’t know better. The more discerning ones probably chose to sleep under a tree instead or got themselves tossed in jail for a couple of days. At least there, they could count on clean bedding and a decent meal.

So how had Norm and Della Schafer, a pair of drunks, scraped up the money to pay Reba to clean rooms? Why had they needed anyone to clean rooms, when they certainly didn’t have a lot of regular or long-term guests to mess them up?