“Where do you want me to take you?”
“Head toward Prentiss. I’ll direct you from there.”
Now that they were clear of the congestion, he sat up and placed the pistol on the floorboard. “I wonder if Joe’s missed it yet.”
“Do you want to talk about what happened?”
“Otterman killed Conrad. I killed Otterman. I thought he was done for, but… He knew I had extra weapons. Why didn’t I check him for another?” He planted the heels of his hands against his eyes that stung with unshed tears. “I shouldn’t have kept him from seeing Georgia.”
“Conrad, you mean.”
“That was hateful. Spiteful. I was angry at him for so many years. I—” He stopped, unable to go on.
Holly, speaking quietly, said, “He understood, Crawford.”
He lowered his hands from his eyes and met hers in the rearview mirror. “He understood and agreed with your decision. Sometime I’ll tell you what he said about it, but now’s not the time. Shouldn’t you go back?”
“They got what they needed from me tonight. We’re picking back up in the morning. I wasn’t doing Conrad any good. One of the EMTs told me that media was already camped out at the hospital, waiting for the ambulances to arrive. I just couldn’t face all that right now.”
“They’ll be looking for you. At least call Neal.” When he didn’t respond, she offered to call for him.
Reluctantly, he nodded. “I guess you should. I hate to think of all that personnel wasting time searching for me.”
She punched in the call and put it on speaker so Crawford could hear. As soon as Neal answered, he said, “Crawford’s vanished. Nobody saw him go. He didn’t tell anybody—”
“He’s with me.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” he muttered. “Where are you?”
“He said you were resuming in the morning.”
“Seven thirty.”
“He’ll be there.” She clicked off. “I think he’s worried about you.”
Crawford scoffed. “He’s only worried he’ll catch heat for being wrong. Anyway, thanks for doing that.”
“Don’t thank me.”
Taking him completely by surprise, she steered sharply off the highway onto the shoulder, got out, and opened the back door. Practically crawling over him, she placed her hands on either side of his head and drew his face to hers.
“Holly, I’m a mess.”
“I don’t care. I can’t wait any longer to touch you.”
They kissed openmouthed and deep. When they finally broke apart, she continued to run her fingertips over his face as though to assure herself that he was really there. With emotional raspiness, she said, “I thought you might die.”
“Honestly, I thought I might, too.”
He palmed the back of her head, tilted it, and they kissed again; he broke it off before he wanted to. “The reason I split? This investigation will tie me up for hours, days, weeks, and I’ve got to see Georgia. If you don’t want to take me, I’ll find some other way to get there. But I am going to see her.”
“You want to drive to Austin tonight?”
“They’re not in Austin. Grace doesn’t even have a sister.”
The attractive log house belonged to friends who attended the Gilroys’ church. It was used as a weekend getaway. The pine-studded lot was situated on a lake about twenty miles south of Prentiss. Joe had suggested it as their hiding place, and Crawford had thought it sounded ideal.
He’d lied about where they were going because of its proximity to Prentiss. And to Otterman. He had kept it from Holly in case she was ever pressured into telling someone what she believed to be the truth.
Together they walked up to the front door. He knocked softly. A few moments later, the light above the door came on. Grace gave a startled scream when she opened it and saw Crawford.
“It’s not my blood.” Grace looked anything but reassured as he and Holly stepped inside and she saw his mud-crusted boots and jeans, the pistol he was holding at his side. “I want to see Georgia. But I need to wash up first.”
“Back here.”
She led them down a hallway and into a sizable den, comfortably furnished, with a wall of windows overlooking the lake. Joe was reclined in a leather chair, wearing a headset, watching TV.
Grace spoke his name loudly enough to override the TV audio. He turned his head in her direction, then did a double take when he saw Crawford. He bounded out of the chair as he ripped off the headset. “Holy hell!”
For the third time, Crawford said, “It’s not my blood. It’s my dad’s, actually. He’s dead.” While his in-laws were trying to absorb that, he said, “But so’s the bastard who killed him.”
“Otterman?”