For Mike. I love you.

A writer needs the support of so many, and I have been blessed with the best writer's group on the planet: Kay, Amy, Laura, Linda, Charlie, Bob and Mary, your support and insights make me work hard every week to write the best book I can. I thank you from the bottom of my heart. Susie, Isabella and Spicey, you are like family. Thanks for sharing your home. Jeffrey Cranor, my webmaster and publicity man, you do a fantastic job. A special thanks to Tim Carter, retired death row guard, who answered my endless questions with enthusiasm. To all the readers who have e-mailed saying they love Abby, you have no idea what joy I feel knowing I brought someone the treasured escape of a book. Thank you, Carole Mann, for your help and commitment. I love you, Mike, Shawn, Jillian, Jeffrey and Allison. Lastly, Claire, you are the best advocate I could have ever imagined, my dream-come-true editor. Thank you.

If Daddy were alive and standing beside me tonight, he'd say we've got a skunk down the well. A situation. I was in a parking lot on Houston's south side, leaning against the driver's-side door of my Camry and sipping on a Diet Coke. I wouldn't be getting near the espresso bar to meet with a witness in my new case. Not with crime scene tape strung in front of the building and red, white, and blue police cruiser lights electrifying the night sky like a patriotic carnival.

Folks from the sports bar farther down in the strip mall had wandered out to see what was going on, too. From the number of cars in the lot, the bar must have been packed for the Friday night NBA play-off game. Then a TV station news van pulled into the lot just as the faint mist dampening my hair and bare shoulders turned into a warm June drizzle.