Ronnie jumped. “I don’t know anything else. I’m sorry.” She looked at the officer. “There wasn’t, like, a security camera on that hallway?” She hoped there wasn’t. She thought of the piece of paper she’d found in the filing cabinet and shoved into her pocket. She wriggled uncomfortably, feeling its folded edges at her side.

Connelly shook his head. “There were cameras at other locations on campus, but not that particular hallway. I was told by her office manager that they’d planned to put a camera in there, but they hadn’t done so yet. Budget cuts or something.”

“Oh.”

He sat back in his chair, giving her a devilish little smile. “So where are you from, anyway?”

Her blood went cold. “Excuse me?”

“I have a record that you and your daughter moved here a few years ago.”

It astonished Ronnie that he could have dug up that information so quickly. “What kind of record?”

“An apartment rental.” He smiled pleasantly. “So where’d you come from?”

Lie, a voice told her. Say Montana. Nevada. But somehow, her mouth couldn’t form the words.

“Pennsylvania!” the officer crowed. “That’s a long way. What made you make such a shift?”

He knows, Ronnie thought. He was baiting her. He knew the whole sordid story about Jerrod and Vanessa. She very well might have blurted it out when she was unconscious. And even worse—this was only occurring to her—he thought that because of that story, she was a person who could be guilty of things.

“Though I guess,” the cop suddenly said, “I guess you don’t necessarily need a license to exotic dance in a different state, do you?”

Ronnie’s head shot up. “Excuse me?”

“It’s a profession you can do anywhere. There’s always a need.” He winked. “No judgments or anything. I’ve heard Topless Maids is quite a swanky organization.”

Ronnie was so stunned she couldn’t form a thought. “What did you say?”

The door opened, sending a shard of light into the room. Ronnie’s detective turned sharply, annoyed at the interruption. Ronnie shaded her eyes and stared at the figure in the doorway. A portly man walked in. “Ms. Stuckey? Come on. Let’s go.”

“What?” New panic seized her. They’d found out about Esme. She was going immediately to jail.

The second man pivoted to the detective. “Archer Cromwell. I’m her lawyer.”

“My . . . what?” Ronnie laughed nervously. “I think there’s some mistake. I can’t afford you.”

“It’s covered,” Archer Cromwell said, taking her arm. “All paid for. I’m at your service.”

“Paid for—by whom?”