"And what kind of gun is it?"

"I don't remember."

"Shotgun? Handgun? Rifle?"

She hesitated a beat. "Handgun."

"What type of handgun?"

Her attention moved from Will to Cernak. "I don't remember."

"You don't remember?" Cernak asked, incredulous.

Courtney looked at Will. Then she glanced at the video camera behind him. Her breathing was shallow, and she seemed to be making an effort not to chew her lip.

"Miss Glass?" Cernak leaned forward on his elbows. "You don't remember what type of gun you bought? Are you sure?"

She leaned back in her chair. Her gaze shifted to Will.

"I've changed my mind," she said. "I want to talk to a lawyer."

Apparently if you had a bad suit and a law degree, you could charge five hundred dollars to say this interview is over.

After a ten-minute meeting in a supposedly private room, and after Courtney had written a check that she prayed wouldn't bounce, Ross Ackerman had delivered this simple message on her behalf to a stony-faced Lieutenant Cernak.

The two men had traded a few snippets of legalese, and then Ackerman had escorted Courtney out of the dimly lit police station into the blindingly bright sunlight.

They stood on the sidewalk now, facing each other.

"I'm late for court," he said, checking his chunky plastic Ironman watch. Courtney had picked Ackerman's name out of a grimy phone book, and even though his receptionist had called him "fast" and "affordable," Courtney had waited nearly two hours for him to show up. Two nerve-racking hours.

"I'll be busy all day." He reached into his front suit pocket and pulled out a business card. "But let's talk again tonight. Maybe five-thirty? I need to hear about your case."

Courtney took the card he offered and looked him over. She put him at forty. He had male pattern baldness, but what he lacked hair-wise, he made up for with a trim build and a decent manicure.

"Is Ackerman your real name?" she asked, squinting at him under the broiling sun.

"Why?"

"It just seems really convenient. You know, in the phone book."

He smiled. "I thought about going with 'Aardvark' but my wife put her foot down."

Courtney tucked the card into her purse. He was truthful, and he was a family man. She could put up with his fashion limitations.

"I get off at six," she said, as a familiar white Honda rolled up to the curb.

"Let's meet then at my office." He reached out his hand. "Nice meeting you, Miss Glass. I look forward to helping you."

After he walked away, Courtney slid into the passenger seat of Fiona's car.

"Who was that?" her sister asked, watching him go in the rearview mirror.

"My attorney."

Fiona shot her a look. "You need a real attorney."

"He's affordable," Courtney said, unzipping her purse. She rooted around for a Slim Fast bar but had to settle for a piece of Trident.

Fiona pulled away from the curb. "Forget affordable; you need effective. I'll lend you the money. Where are we going?"

"The salon."

Her sister gaped at her. "You're going to work?"

"I've already lost half my morning. I can't afford to get fired."

Fiona shook her head as she pulled up to a stoplight. "You seem to be missing this. You're in real trouble, Court. They recovered your gun."

"Who told you that?" Courtney's heart started to race. Hearing her sister say it made it feel all the more real.

"Nathan. How did your gun end up near a homicide scene in Zilker Park?"

"What else did he say?"

"He said it's not looking good for you. He said the slug matches your Beretta, and they found gunshot residue on your fingers."

Courtney could see the strain in her sister's face. She was worried. And in typical Fiona fashion, she was trying to hide it under a matter-of-fact demeanor. "What else did he tell you?"

"That was pretty much it. What's going on, Courtney?"

"What's it look like? I was set up." She rubbed her temples, trying to rub away the headache. She didn't really want to play twenty questions with Fiona right now.

"I don't understand."

"Yeah, welcome to the club," she snapped. "I don't understand, either."

"Why would someone set you up?"

"How do I know?"

"And how'd they get your gun?"

"I have no idea. It was in my nightstand."

"Was your house broken into?"

Courtney sighed. "I don't know. I mean, it was, obviously. But I didn't realize it until after the murder."

Fiona gave Courtney a doubtful look. "This seems farfetched."

"Far-fetched? What, you don't believe me?"

"That's not what I meant. It just...I mean, I'm just saying. It sounds so improbable."

A knot formed in Courtney's chest-all the fear and nerves and anxiety of the past few days tangled together. "Believe what you want."

"I didn't say I didn't believe you. I just-"

"What else did Nathan say?"

"Not much."

Courtney catalogued her problems. They had her gun. And her prints. And the gunshot residue on her fingers. Not to mention some witness who claimed to have seen her arguing in her car with David just before his death.

But someone else had been there. There had to be evidence of him. There had to be DNA, fibers, something.

"That was it?" Courtney asked. "That's all he told you?"

"That was it, but..."

"But what?"

Fiona hung a left onto the upscale shopping strip where Bella Donna was located.

"Spill it, Fiona. I need to know!"

"It's just that they must have something else. To back you up. Otherwise, you'd be under arrest right now."

Tears sprang into Courtney's eyes. They had something, something that supported her story. It was such a relief, she wanted to cry.

Instead, she gazed out the window as Fiona's car rolled to a stop.

"Courtney."

She turned to face her sister.

"You need to tell me what happened."

"I told you what happened."

"You didn't tell me about the gun."

Courtney glanced away. She hadn't been able to tell her. She hadn't been able to tell Will, either. It was too scary. It made the nightmare too real. Someone, somehow, had gotten hold of her gun and forced her to kill David with it.

It sounded surreal. It felt surreal. And yet it had happened, and Courtney had no idea why.

And now the police had irrefutable evidence that pointed to her.

She needed air. She pushed open the door.

"Courtney?"

"I'll call you after work."

"We have to discuss this! Do they know about Walter?"

Courtney's stomach clenched just hearing the name. "I have no idea," she told Fiona.

"Well, did you tell them?"

Courtney scoffed. "What do you think?"

"They're going to find out, you know."

And this, of course, was part of Fiona's stress. And Courtney's. Walter was one of the two main reasons Courtney had lied to the police. If some cop did enough digging, he'd find out Courtney had been investigated for murder once before. She'd never been arrested or charged, so it wasn't part of her record, but just the fact she'd been questioned in the suspicious death of her stepfather had to be in a file somewhere. A skilled investigator probably could track it down. Someone thorough and determined.

Someone like Will Hodges.

Courtney felt a rush of panic. "I can't deal with this right now."

"You're avoiding it."

Fiona the psychologist. Courtney didn't want to hear it.

She glanced at Bella Donna's ornate front door. She'd already missed two cuts and a color. And one of those appointments had been her best tipper.

"You need to talk to Jack," Fiona said. "He can help you."

"I'll think about it."

Fiona's fiance was an ex-cop who now worked for the D.A.'s office, and he knew all about investigations and evidence and police procedure. He'd helped Courtney out of a few scrapes, just like Fiona and Nathan had. And each time, Courtney had felt like the messed-up kid sister who could never get her shit together.

"I'll handle it," she told Fiona now.

"Courtney, this is serious-"

"I know. That's why I hired an attorney."

Fiona gave her a "get-real" look, and Courtney knew she needed to escape. She grabbed her purse and scooted out.

"Please don't go to work right now. We need to deal with this."

"I'm dealing with it," Courtney said with false confidence. "You can stop worrying."

Will's gaze scanned the array of cops seated around the conference table, all drinking stale coffee and hashing out theories in the Alvin homicide. Webb came across as competent, but overworked. Cernak was experienced, but he seemed more worried about the political ramifications of the case than anything else. And then there was Nathan Devereaux, who officially had been reassigned but who had logged more hours than Will running down leads in this case.

"It just doesn't fit," Devereaux said, stuck on the same point he'd been making all morning.