Back Cut and Run
Chapters (48)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Notice
  3. Dedication
  4. Acknowledgments
  5. Prologue
  6. Chapter One
  7. Chapter Two
  8. Chapter Three
  9. Chapter Four
  10. Chapter Five
  11. Chapter Six
  12. Chapter Seven
  13. Chapter Eight
  14. Chapter Nine
  15. Chapter Ten
  16. Chapter Eleven
  17. Chapter Twelve
  18. Chapter Thirteen
  19. Chapter Fourteen
  20. Chapter Fifteen
  21. Chapter Sixteen
  22. Chapter Seventeen
  23. Chapter Eighteen
  24. Chapter Nineteen
  25. Chapter Twenty
  26. Chapter Twenty-one
  27. Chapter Twenty-two
  28. Chapter Twenty-three
  29. Chapter Twenty-four
  30. Chapter Twenty-five
  31. Chapter Twenty-six
  32. Chapter Twenty-seven
  33. Chapter Twenty-eight
  34. Chapter Twenty-nine
  35. Chapter Thirty
  36. Chapter Thirty-one
  37. Chapter Thirty-two
  38. Chapter Thirty-three
  39. Chapter Thirty-four
  40. Chapter Thirty-five
  41. Chapter Thirty-six
  42. Chapter Thirty-seven
  43. Chapter Thirty-eight
  44. Chapter Thirty-nine
  45. Also by Allison Brennan
  46. Praise for these other novels by New York Times bestselling author Allison Brennan
  47. About the Author
  48. Newsletter Sign-up

“What happened?” Jill continued. “Did they have an accident? The police said they left the country. I have family in Mexico. Sure, parts are dangerous, but Glen and Denise wouldn’t go to those areas.”

“Their bodies were found locally. About ten miles from their home as the crow flies.”

“I don’t understand. What happened?” she repeated.

“They were murdered.”

She closed her eyes again, took a deep breath. Opened them. “How can I help?”

“Did Ricky say anything to you that day? Anything you remember that sounded strange at the time, or in hindsight?”

“It was three years ago, I don’t remember anything specific. If I had, I would have told the police when they first came to talk to us.”

“I’m sure you would have, and we have their notes, but anything you can tell us about Ricky and his family would help us.”

Jill said, “I want to help, but I don’t know what to say, really. Ricky was here all the time. He, Joe, and Ginny were inseparable, and he was a good kid. Very polite, smart. Joe—my son—he would much prefer to play than do homework. Ricky was a good student, he more than anyone could get Joe to focus for thirty minutes to finish whatever project they were doing, then they would play. The three of them—they’d been friends since first grade, when we moved here. They rode their bikes to school together, and he was here almost every afternoon. If Ricky had a fault, it was being late. Time was more a suggestion to him.” She smiled sadly at the memory. “Half the time his mom or dad would be calling over here for him because he forgot a dentist appointment or it was past dinner. All I really remember about that day was that it was six and I called out to the tree house that it was six and did Ricky want to stay for dinner. He ran in, said he couldn’t, that he was late getting home. I told him to go ahead and I’d call his parents and tell them he was on the way.”

“Who did you speak to?”

“No one. I called the house phone, no one answered, and I left a message on their answering machine.”

“And you’re certain it was six in the evening.”