“Let me check it out.”

Mr. Peterson cleared his throat. “Randy, why not investigate the hit-and-run before you evaluate the condition of the bicycle?”

“I’m sure the driver didn’t see her. Made a mistake. It’s dark and visibility is bad.”

“The driver had headlights,” I said.

“That means he saw her.” Mr. Peterson gave every indication of supporting me, but trust hadn’t been earned yet. “This makes the third crime against Ms. Pearce.”

“She’s got a record, Jim. Murdering an innocent man sets her up for a few enemies. Besides, my bike doesn’t have reflectors.”

“What’s wrong with you?” Mr. Peterson frowned. “Don’t you think a little due diligence is in order?”

“Sure, once I inspect my bike. Then we’ll take a look at the alleged crime scene.” He walked back to his car, popped the trunk, and grabbed tools to realign the bicycle. All without a word. “It’s okay for now, but if I have problems down the road, you’ll pay for repairs or a replacement.”

I rode with Mr. Peterson, and Officer Hughes followed in his cruiser to the spot where I’d fallen. Mud and crushed grass indicated the area. Officer Hughes spent all of twenty seconds surveying the scene. “Nothing here to open an investigation.”

Patience with Hughes waned. “I have the first three letters of the driver’s license plate—DAT.”

“What state?”

“I have no idea, but it wasn’t Texas.”

Officer Hughes chuckled. “Nothing for me to validate a crime’s been committed. Looks to me like you wrecked my property and made up this fool story.” He headed to his vehicle. “I have real work to do.”

“You’re out of line,” Mr. Peterson said.

“I’m doing my job.”

I watched Officer Hughes speed away. “Thanks for supporting me.”

He nodded. “It’s doubtful that whatever’s going on is over.”

At the cabin and again alone, I considered what had happened—the shot fired into Edie’s SUV, the note letting me know I wasn’t wanted, and the pickup driver’s actions. All deliberate. Repeatedly my thoughts landed in the same place.

Someone thought I should have stayed in prison, or I had knowledge about the unrecovered money or both.

The person had a stake in the past, but no one came to mind. How did I fight an unseen enemy? God, give me strength to hold tightly to You.

My phone rang. An incomplete number appeared on the screen, so no chance of tracing it. Should I answer?

“This is Shelby.”

“You’re not doing your family any favors,” a distorted voice said.

I breathed deeply to calm my shattered nerves. “I agreed not to contact them, so what’s the problem?”

“Give them the gift of suicide.”

I shuddered. “Why?”

“They want you dead or back behind bars. No need for taxpayer money to support you.”

My parents wouldn’t do that, would they? “Who are you?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Let’s meet face-to-face. Or are you a coward?”

“You’ll see my face when you rot in hell. Tell anyone about this call, and you’ll regret it.”