She felt ashamed as Mamie added, “Don’t make any difference if she’s a Christian or not, we are, and we got to treat her right.”

“Wait a second, Mamie,” her husband said. “Price, what are you trying to do here?”

“Her boyfriend is the one who killed Aubrey, Dad, and I took her so he’d come looking for her and I could get a shot at him.”

The older Egglestons paused.

Fiji said, “I’m sorry, but your son is mistaken. If he’s thinking my boyfriend is Bobo Winthrop, he’s not right. But Bobo is a friend of mine, and I have to speak up for him. Bobo never killed anyone. He’s a sweet man, and he loved Aubrey. Up until this moment, we believed that Price killed Aubrey.”

Bart and Mamie looked at each other. “Come on in the house,” Mamie said at last. “Let’s get out of this damp. Price, loose the poor girl’s hands.”

Price, looking very young now with his hair plastered to his head under his cowboy hat, pulled a key from his pocket. After some fumbling—during which Fiji almost shrieked with frustration—her wrists were free. She cried out with the relief of being able to put her hands in front of her. Her wrists had ugly chafe marks on them, but she was ready to disregard them since she had her hands back.

“Thank you, Miss Mamie,” she said, because she would have shot herself in the foot rather than thank Price.

“You’re welcome, sweetie,” said the older woman. Now that she could spare a second to look, Fiji could see that Mamie Eggleston was wearing an expensive peach velour tracksuit studded with gold metal stars. She’d slid her feet into plastic mules, which was practical, though her feet must be cold by now. Bart Eggleston was still in his jeans and a flannel shirt. What time was it? Now that Fiji could look at her watch, she realized it was barely six o’clock.

She had a host of thoughts that wanted to be recognized, but she snapped out of her musing when she realized there was an awkward silence among the Egglestons.

“I hope I can call my neighbor to come get me,” Fiji said brightly. “I left some soup on the stove, and my cat needs to be fed.” Better to know than to be kept wondering, she figured. Her answer came almost immediately.

“Well, young lady,” Bart said slowly, “this is right awkward. We don’t want our son to be arrested, and you seem like the direct kind of person who would want to take him to court for acting impulsively.”