“I’m not here to scrutinize your housekeeping.” I hesitated, certain I’d lost my mind, and he’d toss me out. “First of all, thank you for your apology and for the belief in my innocence. I admit I have no idea if I can ever trust you. But all that aside, I need a favor, and you’re the only one who has the contacts to help me.”

He turned his ear to me as if he hadn’t heard correctly. “You’re asking me for a favor?”

“Ironic, right? This could possibly help you locate the money and right your career. I need to stop whoever is stalking me. The missing money is the only thing that makes sense.”

“You’re sure Travis Stover’s family isn’t behind this?”

“Ninety-nine percent sure. They’re missionaries, remember?”

“All right, I’m listening.”

“I need to discuss an idea with Sheriff Wendall, but I can’t use my phone in case mine’s been hacked.” I took a breath. “Would you call him for me?”

“Easy enough. Must be more. This is too simple.” He pressed in a number and handed me his phone.

“Sheriff Wendall, this is Shelby Pearce. I’m using Denton McClure’s phone.”

“Is he in one piece?”

I laughed despite the circumstances. “Yes. Want to talk to him?”

“Nah, I believe you, little lady. What’s goin’ on? Another problem?”

“I’d like to meet with you in person. But I’m not sure how to go about keeping it a secret. But if you’re agreeable, it needs to be so no one would recognize you.”

“Hmm, anythin’s possible. We can arrange a meetin’. Let me talk to Denton.”

I gave him the phone. “Your turn.” The one-sided conversation consisted of “Yes” and “Sure thing.”

Denton ended the call. “He’ll be at your cabin around eleven thirty tonight.”

Hours later I closed the blinds and crafted jewelry until a knock at the door and Sheriff Wendall’s voice announced his arrival. No doubt my stalker had me in his sights, and the sheriff and Denton had rehearsed whatever was about to unfold. He drove a sedan and wore khakis and a knit shirt, sharing little likeness to the country sheriff representing Valleysburg’s law enforcement.

I opened the door. “Can I help you?” The sheriff handed me a business card, and I pretended to read it.

“Ms. Pearce, I represent the district parole office, and I have a few questions regarding your parole.” No signs of his usual Southern drawl.

“Is something wrong?”

“It’s been brought to my attention that you’ve violated a condition. I’d like to discuss it.”

“Should I contact my parole officer?”

“He’s aware of my visit.”

I opened the door wider for him to enter. My wild idea to find a resolution to the threats bounced around my brain until my head throbbed, weighing the obstacles and what I’d do if the sheriff rejected my plan. I closed and bolted the door.

“Curiosity is gettin’ the best of me.”