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update.”
    The pulse jumped to one-twenty again. Whatever Roscoe concealed burrowed deep into its hiding place, but it didn’t feel safe there.
    “As I said, I’m happy to help if I can,” Roscoe said. Then she hesitated, just slightly, but Kim noticed the held breath before the question. “Who is it you’re interested in?”
    Kim glanced at Gaspar. He signaled agreement with a slight nod. They’d get nowhere with Chief Roscoe today unless they could shake her loose a little. If they had to come back another time, she’d have her answers sanded to smooth uselessness.
    Now or never.
    “We’ve been asked to conduct a background check on an army veteran,” Kim said, slowly, watching Roscoe’s demeanor closely. Almost like the children’s game of hot, hot, cold, but the method depended less on what Roscoe said and more on how she reacted. Standard interview techniques Kim had applied a thousand times. If Roscoe was worried about anyone not an army veteran, she should relax a bit.
    But she didn’t relax.
    Gaspar bluffed. “We know he came to Margrave about fifteen years ago. Maybe he lives here now. Law enforcement might have had some contact with him.”
    Pulse elevated and steady at one-twenty. Something Gaspar had said had alarmed Chief Roscoe further. Good.
    Roscoe said, “Our population has grown quite a bit because of sprawl out of Atlanta. But I’d know anyone who’s lived here more than a few months. What’s his name?”
    The way she inquired, the tension she carried in her eyes and shoulders, the timing, her failure to breathe. Pulse at one-twenty-five. Very concerned. But the greater Atlanta area boasted a significant veteran population. She could be worried about someone else entirely.
    But Kim had noted that fifteen men were referenced in the materials received from the boss. And only two women: Reacher’s mother, now dead two decades.
    And the first source: Beverly Roscoe.
    Not identified by her married name, either. Roscoe, not Trent. The name she had when Reacher swept through Margrave. The name she still used on every official record. In an old-fashioned small town where everybody knew she was Mrs. Trent.
    Kim set her coffee mug on the table between her chair and Gaspar’s. She wiped her hands. She reached into her pocket for the photograph.
    “Here, let me show you,” Kim said, as she lifted her gaze directly to Roscoe’s face, watching for nuanced micro movements, lowering her voice to focus Roscoe’s full attention while she revealed the photo, and she said, “The man’s name is Jack Reacher.”
    Roscoe’s face aged instantly. The formal smile she’d worn a moment before vanished along with all vitality from those enormous eyes. Her expression became both vacant and horrified.
    A full second passed. Maybe two. Roscoe continued to stare at the altered photo of Jack Reacher. Her pulse was erratic, racing.
    And then she started to cry.

 
    CHAPTER SEVEN
     
    Tears flooded Roscoe’s eyes. One rolled down her cheek before she grabbed a tissue. The tears kept on coming. Her chin quivered. She took a deep ragged breath, and another. Still the tears fell. She swiveled her chair around, turning her back on Kim and Gaspar, hiding her face. They could hear her rhythmic breathing, struggling to regain control.
    She was like the hundreds of crime victims Kim had interviewed after unimaginable, tragic, deeply personal disasters. What the hell had Reacher done to her?  Nothing in Reacher’s file reflected violence against women, although he was certainly capable of it. The bastard. Why hadn’t she considered that Reacher might have hurt this woman?
    Kim glanced toward Gaspar. Blatant emotion had not been on his list of expected reactions, either. What should they do now?  Gaspar didn’t seem to have a clue.
    Roscoe’s deep breaths continued a minute or two until she finally composed herself and turned around to face them once again. Her eyes were clear and her chin was strong. She smiled