“Where did you stay?”

“Holiday Inn off of Interstate 23.”

“You know I’m going to check.” I jot everything down.

“It’s okay. We were there.”

“When Amanda told you she didn’t want to be tied down, did you get jealous?”

“No. I mean, a little. Like, when I imagined her going out with other guys. But not like that.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’d never hurt Amanda. Jesus Christ, not like that.” A quiver runs through the last word.

“Like what?”

“I heard . . . what he did to her.”

“Who’d you hear it from?”

“Waitress at the diner said he . . . you know.” Sweat beads on his forehead and upper lip. Wrapping the sandwich in a napkin, he tosses it into the trash. “Makes me sick.”

“I need you to think hard about this, Donny. Is it possible Amanda was seeing someone else?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t think so. She wasn’t guy crazy or anything. Amanda had a level head.”

“So you think she was being straight with you?”

“She said she wanted to stay friends.” He lifts a shoulder, lets it drop. “I figured that was a lot better than never seeing her again.” His eyes mist. “Doesn’t matter now. I’m never going to see her again, anyway, am I?”

I shove my notepad into my coat pocket. “Don’t leave town, okay?”

His gaze meets mine. In his eyes I see the kind of pain a twenty-two-year-old farm kid probably can’t fake, and I feel an uncharacteristic need to reassure him.

“You guys think I did it?” he asks.

“I just want you to be available in case I have more questions.”

Leaning back in the chair, he swipes at his eyes with the back of his hand.

“I don’t have any plans to go anywhere, anyway.”

I offer my card. “If you think of anything else, call me.”

He looks at the card. “I hope you guys catch the lowlife who did that to her. Amanda didn’t deserve to die.”

“No, she didn’t.” As I make my exit, I mentally cross Donny Beck off my list of suspects.

It’s not yet eight A.M. when I arrive at the station. Glock’s cruiser is parked in its usual spot. Next to it, Mona’s Ford Escort is covered with a thin coating of snow. I wonder what new catastrophe waits for me inside.

Mona looks up from her phone when I enter. “Hey, Chief. You’ve got messages.”

“Now there’s a surprise.” I take a dozen slips from her.

Her hair is piled on top of her head with little ringlets spiraling down. Her lipstick is almost as black as her nail polish. Maroon eyeliner makes her look like she’s got a bad case of pinkeye. “Norm Johnston is getting pissed about having to leave messages, Chief. He’s like, you know, taking it out on me.”

“Did he say what he wants?”

“Your head on a platter, probably.”

I give her a look.

“Just a wild guess.”