A quiver goes through her body. Her hands slowly curl into fists. Only then do I realize I’ve found her weak spot. She was borne of violence, and the question of her paternity has left her twitching inside like a nerve exposed to air.

“My father is Willis Hochstetler.”

“You were born nine months after that night, Ruth. You don’t know who your father is. It could be any of them. Dale Michaels. Jerrold McCullough. Blue Branson.”

“I made them sorry for it, didn’t I?” she says.

“You’re going to be charged with three counts of first-degree murder and two counts of attempted murder of a police officer. You’re not going anywhere for a very long time.”

“So be it. My work is done.”

Needing to get out of there, I turn my attention to the detective. “We’re finished here.” I rise, round the table, and bend so that my mouth is just inches from her ear. “In case you haven’t noticed, you’re the spitting image of Blue Branson.”

She lunges at me, but I’m faster and dance out of reach. Before she can make contact, the detective is on his feet, moving between us. The corrections officer darts across the room and presses Weaver back into the chair.

I go through the door without looking back.

*   *   *

I find Tomasetti in the hall, waiting for me. “How did it go?” he asks.

“She confessed. To everything.” I’m not ready to talk about it; I need a few minutes to regroup and dislodge the unsettling sense of ugliness that clings to me.

“You’re shaking.”

I’m not very good at sharing my emotions, especially when they’re dark. It takes me a moment before I can look at him. “She married her half brother. They lived together as husband and wife for years.”

“That’s about as twisted as it gets.”

More than anything in that moment, I want to go to him, put my arms around him because I need to be held. Instead, because we’re in a public place surrounded by our peers, I touch his hand. “Tomasetti, I’m glad you’re here. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he tells me.

We start toward the elevator. “Any word on Pickles?” I ask.

“Glock sent a text ten minutes ago. He’s out of surgery. Prognosis is good. Spleen didn’t make it.”

I choke out a laugh, release the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “Will you take me to the hospital?”

“You bet.”

The elevator doors slide open.

We ride to the ground floor in silence and start toward the exit. We’ve just reached the Tahoe when Tomasetti takes my hand, stopping me, and turns me to face him. “What about us, Kate?” he asks. “Are we going to get our happy ending?”