I returned to the booth and eyed the breakfast before me. Hungry as a growing boy, I finished bacon, eggs, hash browns, and two flaky biscuits oozing with apple butter. The food filled my belly with more satisfaction than I deserved.

Outside in the sunshine, I tried to breathe in the fresh air. But a cloud of remorse for the times I’d upset Shelby hovered over me, and I couldn’t leave without apologizing. I retraced my steps and waited until the last customer received his pastry.

Shelby blinked. “What would you like?” Cold and formal.

“I’m sorry. Right from the beginning when we met face-to-face, I’d misjudged you, and I violated your privacy.” I paused to pull together a shred of professionalism. “I repeat, I believe you’re innocent of embezzlement.” I left the café a second time, not needing her reply, only to be heard.

I dropped by Sheriff Wendall’s office and relayed last night’s conversation with Shelby. He complimented me on my adherence to the truth. Not sure how I felt about his attaboy, but I thanked him anyway.

“The card left at Shelby’s cabin is minus any identifying fingerprints.” The sheriff eyed me with a generous dose of disdain, which I deserved. “For the record, and I’m tellin’ you this out of the kindness of my heart, I requested the FBI to do the handwritin’ analysis.”

I could request the report through my secure access. “Thanks. I’ll keep you posted on what happens on my end.”

“That would be an improvement.” He chuckled and I joined him. “Ya know, Denton, I was raised to believe a man has two choices—right or wrong. Nothin’ in between. Officer Hughes will no longer work any incidents related to Shelby.”

I understood perfectly.

Outside, Randy Hughes stopped me in the parking lot, wearing his typical frown and bad-cop swagger. He had watched too many cop movies depicting law enforcement as worse than the criminals. He nodded at the building housing the sheriff’s department. “Why were you here?”

“Personal.”

“My house, my business.”

“Not when my taxes pay your salary.”

Hughes swore. “I can make life real hard for you.”

I turned. “It’s FBI Special Agent McClure. I wouldn’t advise threatening a federal agent.”

Hughes’s face reddened while satisfaction swirled through me.

A nudging urged me to call Mike Kruse, my former partner. Fifteen years ago, we worked the embezzlement side of Shelby’s case. We’d talked several times over the years—more like I contacted him when I needed his input. He now worked the civil rights division in Dallas. Mike responded on the first ring. We swapped small talk about life, his approaching retirement, family, and golf games until he asked for the real reason I’d called.

“Unless you’re dying or getting married, something’s speaking louder than your words.”

“Shelby Pearce.”

He moaned. “How many times do we need to go over this? Have you dug up new evidence?”

“I’m living in the same town as Pearce, working another angle of the case. Perhaps an aspect we missed.”