I recap the events of the day, and I hear him sigh on the other end of the line. I consider telling him about my plan to stake out Blue Branson’s place tonight, but I don’t want to worry him, so I don’t mention it.

“You’ve had a busy day.”

“Yeah.”

“For a moment there, I thought maybe you were avoiding me.”

“I was, but now that I’m talking to you, I can’t imagine why.”

He laughs. “I’m going to have to think about that one.”

From my place at the wheel, I watch T.J. pull up in his usual parking slot a few spaces down from where I’m sitting and walk into the station. “Tomasetti, this woman has lived off the grid her entire life. She was homeschooled. As an adult, she didn’t get a driver’s license. No credit cards in her name. There’s not a single photo of her I could find. No one knows anything about her.”

“It sounds like her mother’s death put something into motion,” he says. “Maybe before she died, the mother made some deathbed confession that set this woman off. The daughter, distraught and without a support system, took it upon herself to mete out a little payback.”

“What if Ruth Weaver is a result of the rape? What if Wanetta Hochstetler knew it and some part of her hated her daughter for it. What if, over the course of her daughter’s life, Wanetta put her on this path?”

“There is a twisted sort of logic to that.”

“Hatred can take on a lot of different faces.”

“What else do you know about her?” he asks.

“We know she’s armed. Probably bat-shit crazy. Determined.”

“If I were Blue Branson, I’d be looking over my shoulder.”

“He’s in custody.”

In the interminable silence that follows, I groan inwardly because I know he’s just figured out how I’m going to be spending the night. “So when were you going to tell me you’re going to camp out at Blue Branson’s place?”

“I was going to try to avoid that, if possible.”

“And you accused me of not being honest?”

“That’s a different kind of honesty.”

“Goddamn it, Kate.”

“Tell me you wouldn’t be doing the same thing,” I say defensively.

“Aside from that being a bad idea, you don’t have the manpower for that kind of operation.”

“We’re talking about a woman with a .22 revolver she may or may not know how to—”

“Who’s going to be there to cover your back? Pickles? T.J.?”

“Glock.”

“I guess that makes everything all right, then, doesn’t it?” Sarcasm oozes from his every word.