“Did I say anything after ‘Yours’?”

“No.”

“Green Beret?”

“Beg pardon?”

“Your ex’s father?”

“Yes.”

Emerson gave a low, long whistle. “Boys’re crazier than the Marines. Being an ex-Marine I feel qualified to make the judgment call.”

She almost decided to freak him out and tell him about the flame-thrower of his father’s that Eric had stored in the basement, but she was still too anxious about Emerson’s presence to test his sense of humor. “What can I do for you, Detective?”

Emerson stared at the closed study door a couple of seconds more, then turned his gaze toward her. “First of all, Miss Thompson, I need to tell you that while my questioning you is part of an official investigation, you are not a suspect.”

Lucy nearly choked on her coffee. “A—a wh-what?”

“Suspect.” A beat, then: “Timothy Beals was murdered last night.”

Lucy said nothing, nor did her face betray the shock, terror and—maybe worst or best of all—the elation she was feeling inside.

“What did you want to ask me?”

“Where were you around ten-fifteen last night?”

She had to think, be sure, be absolutely certain of the time she thought she saw on the dashboard clock.

“I think I was being woken up by one of your patrolman. I, uh…I got sick while driving home, then I sort of…passed out, I guess. This was right around Moundbuilders Park. A patrolman woke me up, then he and his partner followed me home. I think that was right around ten-fifteen—I think. I wasn’t in the best of shape.”

Emerson searched back a few pages in his notebook. “It was ten-twenty. According to Officer Banks, you were in a pretty sorry state.”

“Charming.”

Emerson flipped the notebook closed. “I just needed to check.”

“Do you think I did it?”

“After your exit from the meeting last night, yours was the first name that sprang to mind when the call came in.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“No, I don’t think you did it. You couldn’t have done to him what...” Emerson let the sentence remain incomplete.

Lucy had to know. “How did he die?”

A beat, then: “He was decapitated and his torso crushed. To be more specific, his head was bitten off, most of his bones were crushed damn near into powder, and all of his internal organs were pulped. You’d have to run over someone with a steamroller to do that to a body.”

“You said his head was…was—”

“—bitten off, yes—and, no, I can’t come up with any animal that could do that, save for a lion or tiger or gator, and Cedar Hill isn’t exactly a haven for that sort of wildlife. Least, not the last time I checked.” He slipped the notebook back into his jacket pocket, stood, and started toward the front door but stopped at the study. “You mind some advice, Miss Thompson?”

“Why not?”

Emerson gave her a look she couldn’t read, then said: “Be careful what kinds of things you say in public when you’re drunk and upset.”