This revelation hits me like a lightning flash. “You saw the blond man’s face?”

“Yes. While the others were raping me, he and the older dark one shared a bottle of whiskey off to the side. They didn’t think I could see them, I guess. Or they weren’t planning on letting me live, maybe.”

“May I show you some photographs?”

Dolores takes a deep breath, then nods.

I take out the folded page from the Examiner that I showed her mother-in-law in Athens Point. On it are headshots of most of the Knoxes, Glenn Morehouse, Sonny Thornfield, and several other Double Eagles. Dolores scans the page for about ten seconds, then reaches out and lays the nail of her right forefinger on the face of Snake Knox.

“That’s him. That’s the blond man with the scars. He and the dark man killed my husband.”

I close my eyes with enervating relief. “Jesus God.”

“Thank you,” Serenity tells her. “You don’t know what you’ve done.”

Getting slowly to my feet, I look down at Dolores. “I promise you this, Mrs. St. Denis. That man is going to die in Angola Prison.”

She glances over at Serenity, then back at me. “Even without me testifying in court?”

I force myself to take a deep breath, then sit back down in front of her. I came to this fork in the road a thousand times as a prosecutor. Nobody wants to sit in open court and point their finger at a violent killer.

“Dolores—”

“I can’t do it,” she says quickly. “I know what you want, and I wish I could help you. But I can’t sit in the same room with him. I can’t.”

Serenity nods with understanding, but I know she’s going to try to bring the woman around. “Dolores—”

“Can’t you just use what I’ve told you?” she cuts in, her voice high and unsteady. “Like an anonymous tip?”

“I’m afraid that won’t work in a murder case,” I explain.

Dolores looks into her lap and begins to sob quietly. I look to Serenity for help, but even she doesn’t seem to know what to do. While we stare at each other, Dolores’s house phone begins to ring. The bell is soft, but Dolores’s head snaps up so fast that it scares me.

“It’s okay,” I assure her. “Nobody knows we’re here.”

“Maybe it’s Cleotha, checking on me.”

“I’m sure it is. Why don’t you answer it?”

She gets up, walks to an occasional table near the door, then picks up the phone and says, “Yes?”

About five seconds pass. Then she says, “Hello? Hello . . . ?”

As she hangs up, her face drains of color.