Tolliver counted to ten. I could tell by the tiny movements of his head. “No,” he said. “But I worry about you. You’re a strong woman, but a strong woman still isn’t as strong as most men.” This was one of those simple biological truths that made me wonder what God had been thinking. “If he hadn’t taken you to the cemetery, he could have taken you anywhere else. I would have been looking for you, like we track other people.”

“If anyone in this world is aware that she might be killed at any moment, Tolliver Lang, that person is me.” I pointed at my own chest, my finger rigid. “Amazingly, every day millions of women go out with men who have no ulterior motive whatsoever. Amazingly, almost all of them come home perfectly all right!”

“I don’t care about them. I care about you. How you could ever trust anyone when what we see, so many times a year, is murder. . . .”

“And yet, you have no problem inviting a woman you just met into your room!”

He threw up his hands. “Okay, forget it! Forget I said anything! All I want is to know where you are, and for you to be safe!” He stomped out of my room into his, which required going outside; no connecting doors in this cut-rate motel.

I heard the television come on in the next room. What had we been quarrelling about? Did Tolliver really want me to sit in my room while he had fun? Did he really want me to turn down every invitation that came my way, in the name of safety?

I was pretty sure the answer, if you asked him, would be yes.

During the night, the phone by Tolliver’s bed rang. I could hear it through the thin walls. After a moment, it stopped. I tried to imagine who could know where we were and what we were doing, and in the middle of imagining, I fell back to sleep. I ran the next morning, and in the cold crisp air it felt great. The hot shower felt even better. While I was dressing, Tolliver knocked on my door. After I let him in, I finished buttoning my blouse. I was wearing better clothes since we would be meeting the Ashdown client for the first time. This would be a cemetery job, and I wouldn’t have to change. A quick in-and-out.

“The call last night,” he said.

“Yeah, who was that?” I’d almost forgotten.

“It was the police in Sarne.”

“Who in the police?”

“Harvey Branscom, the sheriff.”

I waited, hairbrush in hand.

“We have to go back.”

“Not until we do this job. Why, what happened?”

“Last night, someone went into Helen Hopkins’ house and beat her to death.”

I stared at Tolliver for a minute. I was so used to death that it was hard to produce a normal reaction to news like this.