Dulcie studied her sister. “If you’re that sure the person writing the story is the killer, then maybe we should turn the story over to the sheriff.”

Jolene was shaking her head. “The story isn’t over. The killer will finish it if we just wait.”

But finish it how?

“Monday I’ll get the end of the story. In the meantime...” Jolene glanced toward the table. “I need to return that basket to Midge Atkinson. Maybe we could do it tomorrow? I’m really tired today and I want to reread the murder story. I’ll be fine here alone. I need to be alone, okay?”

Dulcie knew she had little choice. Jolene was determined that the killer wanted her to read the ending and that she would be safe until then.

She just hoped Jolene was right and they had until Monday morning to find the killer.

“I need your help.”

Russell couldn’t believe his ears. He’d spent an afternoon in hell, worrying about Dulcie. Just the sound of her voice on the phone made his heart lift like helium.

“You know you have my help. What can I do? Did I mention I’m glad you called?”

He heard her chuckle on the other end of the line. “Meet me in town at my motel?”

“I’ll see you in fifteen minutes, ten if you need me there sooner.”

She laughed. “Fifteen will be fine.”

Russell wavered between being relieved that she’d finally asked for his help—and worried, since he knew what it would take for her to ask.

This was about Laura Beaumont’s killer, he was sure of that. The killer had stayed hidden for twenty-four years. Did Dulcie really think she could flush him out?

Of course she did. And she would, if humanly possible, and no matter the consequence. That, he knew, was what terrified him. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing her.

That thought made him laugh. He would lose her to Chicago even if he could keep her from getting herself killed here in Whitehorse. It was just a matter of time until Dulcie left. She was a city girl, after all. He could already feel the hole she would leave in his life.

It was crazy how she’d gotten under his skin. All these years, he’d barely dated. He met women, but none of them could hold his interest. Then again, none of them had been Dulcie Hughes.

What if the killer was still around? And worse, what if he’d had help concealing his crime? Maybe not help from the entire community as Dulcie suspected, but from someone close to him. Someone as determined as the killer to keep the secret.

As he pulled up in front of the motel fifteen minutes later, Dulcie came out and slid into the passenger side of his truck. “Thanks for coming.”