Somewhere between three thirty and get-your-ass-to-bed, I slipped into the shower, wondering where Reyes was, what he was doing, where he was sleeping. It must be hard to be an escaped convict with your picture on every television set in three states.

My cell phone rang, and I reached around the curtain for it.

“Ms. Davidson?” a man asked.

I didn’t recognize the number or the voice. “That’s me.”

“This is Deputy Meacham with the Corona Sheriff’s Department. We spoke earlier.”

“Right, my slashed tires.”

“I’m sorry to wake you, but can you come in today?”

I took a mental step back. “If I have to. I actually needed new tires anyway, so it’s not that big a deal.”

“The man you had the altercation with, Farley Scanlon, was found dead in his home early this morning.”

Holy crap. “Seriously?” Maybe Earl Walker was tying up loose ends again, and my poking around had gotten a man killed.

“I rarely joke about these things.”

“Okay, yes, I can be there. But I’m not sure how I can help.”

“We need to ask you a few questions,” he said, his tone sharp.

“Wonderful. So I’m a suspect?”

“If you’ll just come in, ma’am. Immediately.”

I blew out a long breath. “Okay, fine. Wait,” I said as a thought hit me, “do you have a time of death?”

“If you’ll just come in.”

“Deputy,” I said, letting the frustration I felt edge into my voice, “my apartment was broken into last night while I was in Corona dealing with the whole tire mess. I thought it was Farley Scanlon, but maybe not.”

He hesitated, but only for a moment. “The closest we have is sometime between eight and ten. The medical examiner will have a more exact time of death later this afternoon.”

That couldn’t be right. “Are you sure?” I asked. “Because that would mean he couldn’t have broken into my apartment.”

“We’ll need the gentleman you were with to come in, too.”

“Okay, I can be there in a couple of hours.” Naturally, I’d call Uncle Bob first and fill him in, just in case. He came in so handy when accused of murder. “Was Farley, by chance, beaten to death with a bookend?”

That was how Earl Walker had killed his girlfriend Sarah Hadley, after all, but since he was reportedly dead at the time, he was never actually charged.

“No, ma’am.”

“A baseball bat?”

“No.”

“A lawn mower?” I was trying to get every last drop out of the guy. Knowledge was power, baby. “You know, investigator to investigator.”

He cleared his throat, and I couldn’t help but notice his voice was a little softer when he spoke. “His throat was cut.”

“Oh. Okay, be there in a while.”

We hung up, and I went back to rinsing my hair. Farley Scanlon’s throat was cut. I didn’t think the guy they found in Earl Walker’s trunk, who was supposedly Earl Walker, had his throat cut. But he was also burned beyond recognition, so who was to say for sure? Murderers usually stuck to one MO. Earl Walker had beaten that man to death with a baseball bat and, months later after Reyes’s trial, had beaten his girlfriend to death with a bookend. But there was never any mention of cut throats. Maybe the knife was just handy.

Wait a minute. I may have gotten a man killed. I was indirectly responsible for a man’s death. Maybe Farley Scanlon was my guardian, the one Sister Mary Elizabeth was talking about. I hoped not, because he really didn’t like me. Then again, it hadn’t been two days, eleven hours, and twenty-seven minutes. I still had time to be indirectly responsible for someone else’s death. Thank the gods of Olympia.

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” I heard a deep voice say.

Startled, I swiped at the water on my face and glanced around the shower curtain. Reyes Farrow stood leaning against my vanity, arms crossed over his wide chest, his hair mussed, his jaw unshaven, quite possibly the sexiest thing in existence. My knees weakened as a slow grin spread across his face.

He scrutinized the curtain. “Didn’t I get rid of that?”

He was referring to my last shower curtain, which he’d slashed through when he was still able to leave his body incorporeally and wreak havoc across the lands with his ginormous sword thingy, not to be taken metaphorically. I’d refused to come out from behind the shower curtain, and the shower curtain paid the price for my impudence.

“This one is new,” I said, a warning in my voice. “And I like the length.”

He smiled. “Thank you.”

“I was talking about the curtain,” I said, though my heart skipped a pertinent beat at the reminder.

He waited a long moment to answer, studying what he could see of me. “Right.” He was wearing a green army jacket and camouflage fatigues, probably had hit a Salvation Army store, and he looked tired. There was a slight discoloration under his eyes, and I found myself wondering again where he’d been staying.

I turned off the water and reached for a towel. He wrapped a large hand around my wrist and stepped closer, his mahogany eyes glittering with interest. “You look good in wet.”

I fought to cover myself and to control my racing pulse. His heat snaked up my arm as he opened my hand and kissed my palm. His stubble tickled against it.