“I want police protection,” Aidan Brewster stated. He stood with his body hidden behind the door, a wild look in his eyes. “Guys in the shop are gonna kill me. I just know it.”

Miller didn’t step forward. Like D.D., he moved just slightly onto the balls of his feet, his right hand hovering inside his jacket, close to his holstered weapon. “Why don’t you step out from behind the door,” Miller said calmly, “where we can talk face to face?”

“I’m looking at your face,” the sex offender said in bewilderment. “And I’m trying to talk. I’m telling you, Vito ratted me out—told the guys I was a registered pervert. And they’re mad, you know. Guys like them aren’t supposed to hang out with pussies like me. I’m dead for sure.”

“Did someone say something explicit?” D.D. spoke up, her voice striving for the same measured calm of Miller’s tone, even as she stood one step behind the detective, her fingers dancing across the butt of her Glock .40.

“Say it?” The kid sounded even more agitated. “It’s not something you have to say. I heard them whispering. I know what’s going down. Everyone thinks I killed that woman, thanks to your lackeys.” The kid finally came out from behind the door, to reveal disheveled clothing and two empty hands. He stabbed a finger at Miller. “It’s your fault I’m in this mess,” he told the older detective. “You gotta help me out. You owe me that much.”

“Why don’t we talk about it?” Miller finally stepped forward, pushing open the door with his foot, then gently pressing Aidan back into the hallway. The kid seemed oblivious to the anxiety he’d raised in the cops. Instead, he was already turning around and heading to the back of the house, where they understood he had a one-bedroom apartment.

The space was small. Kitchenette, floral love seat, ancient TV. D.D. figured that the landlord, a Mrs. April Houlihan, was responsible for the décor, because she couldn’t imagine a twenty-something male being quite so into crocheted doilies. Aidan didn’t take a seat, but stood next to the kitchen counter. He wore a green elastic band around his left wrist, and was snapping it compulsively.

“Who are these guys, and what did they say to you?” she asked now, watching the skin on his wrist turn red and wondering why the stinging sensation didn’t make him flinch.

“I’m not saying anything more,” Aidan declared in a rush. “More I tell you, the more I’m dead. Just … assign me protection. A police cruiser, a local motel. Something. You gotta do something.”

D.D. decided Colleen Pickler had been right—Aidan Brewster was a first-class whiner.