“So you ran home,” Hunter said.

Jeff lifted his gaze to Hunter’s, surprised to see compassion in the man’s expression. “I did. All I wanted was to get away from New Orleans, so I got a ticket on the first flight out the next morning.” He shuddered. “And I saw the man on the plane with me. I was so scared that he’d recognize me. I didn’t move the whole flight. Just kept my head down and pretended to sleep. But I couldn’t sleep. All I could see was poor Miss Romero on the floor.”

“And when you landed?” Molina prompted when he went silent.

“I went straight home and worked on my article. I worked up until seven last night, and then Nolan Albanesi called and demanded that I send in whatever I had written, because Miss Callahan was in the news again, because of the attempted abduction. That’s when I edited out the parts from the exes and sent it in. I never had the video on my laptop or put it on the Gabber server.”

“And then?” Molina asked.

Jeff took a swallow from the water bottle they’d provided, because his mouth was suddenly dry as dust. “Then I had to figure out what to do about Miss Romero. The, um, the deceased. I didn’t know how long it would take for someone to find her . . .” His gulp was audible, but he was beyond caring now. “You know, her body. And then when I checked the news and saw that the man I’d seen coming out of Miss Romero’s place was the same guy that tried to take Miss Callahan? I was too scared to do anything. Except get drunk.”

“And then?” Hunter asked.

“I fell asleep and my mom woke me up at about one A.M. I knew I had to make this right, so I called the NOPD and reported Miss Romero’s body.”

Molina did the one-raised-brow thing again. “Anonymously?”

Like she didn’t already know the answer. He barely kept from rolling his eyes, but that would have been a knee-jerk panicked response. “Yes, ma’am. I was still afraid that I’d be blamed for the old lady’s death.”

“But he did call,” his mother said.

“I need to make this right for Miss Callahan and Miss Romero,” Jeff said. “As soon as possible. That’s why I’m here. Making amends.”

Molina pulled two laminated sheets from her briefcase. She slid the first across the table and Jeff was startled to see a photo array. “Do you see the man who left Miss Romero’s apartment?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He pointed to the man the press was calling Ephraim Burton, a.k.a. Harry Franklin.

“And this one?” She passed him the second sheet. “Do you see the man who sold you the video?”

Jeff searched each face carefully. “No, ma’am. None of these men are Stan Prescott. I have a photo of him, if that would be helpful.” He pulled out his phone and swiped until he found the photo he was looking for. “This one. I took it for my own records. He didn’t know I took it.”