“We found a small clump of your hair next to Eve Reilly’s car on Saturday night.”

Shock reverberated through him—but he managed to keep his alarm from showing.

Careful, Jackson. That incident never made the news, and Meg hasn’t mentioned it. You don’t know about it.

He scratched his arm again and gave them a look he hoped came across as confused. “At the gas station?”

The two men exchanged a glance he couldn’t decipher.

“Let’s not play games, Mr. Jackson.” This from Flynn.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

His baseball cap should have been sufficient protection that night—and it would have been if he hadn’t scraped his head on the doorframe and lost the cap in the process.

He’d checked, though—and there’d been no evidence of that tiny mishap.

Who’d have thought a few stray strands of dark hair would be noticed on black asphalt—or even still be there by the time Eve came out?

“Then explain how your hair ended up in the parking lot at the middle school where Ms. Reilly was giving a speech.” Lange rejoined the conversation.

Keep playing dumb, Jackson. You can explain this.

“I was on a painting job at a middle school last week.” He named it. The flyer on the bulletin board in the lobby was what had tipped him off to Eve’s speech. “Is that the one you mean?”

The two guys traded another look. It wasn’t any easier to read—but his legitimate explanation had to throw a major fly in their ointment.

“You can verify that with my boss if you want.” It couldn’t hurt to keep trying to be helpful.

“You haven’t told us where you were on August 24 during your lunch hour.” Lange dropped the pleasant pretense.

“I went to Subway to get a sandwich. Do you want to see my credit card receipt?”

“Which Subway?”

“The one in Maplewood.” The opposite direction from Eve’s house.

Giving his card to one of his coworkers and asking him to pick up a sandwich while the man ran home over lunch to let his dog out had been inspired. He’d never expected to need the alibi—but covering all your bases was smart.

Lange closed his notebook. “We appreciate your time.”

“Always glad to help out law enforcement.”

“Not in Texas—or Washington.”

Another film of sweat broke out on his upper lip.

They’d dug into his background.

But that’s what cops did.

Everything they’d found had been history, however. It had nothing to do with his current life—or the Eve Reilly situation.

“I’ve made a new start. My record is clean.”

The detective pocketed his notebook. “We’ll be in touch if we have any other questions.”

Without waiting for a response, the two men walked toward the door without offering to shake his hand again.