31I felt warm fingers on my skin.
Dawna’s hand circled my arm above the elbow.
Her grip tightened. She halted, stopping me, too.
We stood in the middle of the road.
It was empty for a hundred yards in each direction.
I could see easily between the oaks and hickories on each side of the road.
Second-growth, they were only a hundred and fifty years old.
Civil War troops had cut every tree near the battlefield for firewood.
I didn’t spot a soul between the slender trunks.
Enough privacy that Dawna asked for a name.
“Who fired you?”
“Caprock’s head man, Jeff Truman. My boss.”
I swallowed. “Jeff is also the homicide victim.”
Disbelief wrinkled Dawna’s forehead.
“The victim fired you two days before he was shot dead?”
I nodded.
She sighed. “Sorry, Bella. I have to Mirandize you.”
