We both sighed. “I’m tired of having people knock at our door and come in to tell us bad stuff,” I said. “We’re sitting targets, here in a hotel.” I didn’t know how it’d be any different if we had our own home, but somehow I felt it would be.

I used the peephole, and to my surprise I saw Manfred. Since we’d just been talking about him, I felt a little self-conscious when I opened the door to let him in. And he flashed a very aware look at me, a look that said he knew he was on my mind.

“How’s the invalid?” he said. Tolliver came out of the bedroom then, and Manfred said, “Hey, bro! How’s getting shot?”

“Overrated,” Tolliver said. We all sat. I offered Manfred a Coca-Cola or a bottle of water, and he took the Coke.

“I heard about the private eye,” Manfred said. “She was working for you-all after your sister got taken, right?”

I was surprised that he knew that; I couldn’t remember having mentioned it in his hearing. “Yes,” I said. “She was. How’d you hear that?”

“It was on the news. About her book.” I looked at him questioningly. “Did you know Ms. Flores was writing a book? She didn’t tell you?”

“No,” I said, though Tolliver was silent.

“Yeah, it was going to be called Private Eye in the Lone Star State, and she had gotten an offer on it.”

“For real?” I was thunderstruck.

“Yeah, for real. Cameron’s case was the one that made her decide to quit the force and become a private eye. Her continuing search for Cameron is the big story in the book.”

I didn’t know what to think of that, how to react. There was no real reason I should feel betrayed, but I did. It’s particularly unpleasant to think that, for the price of a book, anyone who’s inclined is going to be privy to the most agonizing event in your life.

“Did she tell you this last night?” I asked Tolliver.

He nodded. “I was going to tell you, but then Rudy Flemmons came to get you,” he said.

“You’ve had time since.”

He hesitated. “I wasn’t sure how you would take it.”

“I wish I’d stolen a manuscript instead of the files,” I said, and Manfred’s eyes turned to me with interest.

“What files did you steal? Do the police know you have them? Who are they about?”

“I stole some files out of her trunk,” I said. “The police would probably make me into mincemeat if they knew I’d taken them. They’re about the Joyce family.”

“There’s not one on Mariah Parish?”

“No,” Tolliver said. “Should there be?”