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looked like central casting’s version of a judge—or a senator.
    â€œI hear you’re looking for me, Turner.” Justin deliberately used the judge’s first name. He knew Kincaid liked everyone to call him “judge.”
    â€œWhat in hell do you think you’re doing by coming back to my town?”
    â€œLast I heard it was still Twin Oaks, not Kincaidville. You may be a judge, but this town belongs to a whole lot of folks.”
    â€œYou were always a smart-ass. Clay said so way back.”
    Justin had gone to school with Clay, the judge’s son. He’d beaten him out for the quarterback position in junior high and Clay had never forgiven him. Not that he gave a rat’s ass. He’d always found Clay to be a sneaky, self-centered rich kid.
    â€œGet out of town.”
    â€œIs that a threat?”
    â€œIt’s a promise.”
    Justin manufactured a smile. “And if I don’t?”
    â€œYou’re as good as dead.”
    Justin pulled a miniature tape recorder out of his pocket. He’d used it when he’d been on the force in New Orleans. “I’ve recorded every word you said. I’m meeting with David Noyes. I’m sure the Tribune will be interested to hear your threats. It’ll do wonders for your political career.”
    Color leached from Kincaid’s face, then it suddenly flushed plum-red. “You son of a bitch.”
    Justin jammed the recorder into his pocket, then leaned across the desk and grabbed the prick by his gray silk tie. “Anything happens to me— anything— the press gets this.”
    â€œI—I didn’t mean I was going to kill you—”
    â€œSave it. The recorder’s off. Just be sure you and Buck and all of your buddies stay away from me.” He released the tie and left, slamming the door behind him so hard that one of the pictures fell off the wall. He could hear the glass shattering on the gleaming oak floor.
    He was back in his car with Redd when his cell phone rang. It was Nora.
    â€œAn agent from the Mississippi Bureau of Investigation wants you to call him back on a secure line.”
    He wrote down the number and hung up. What in hell could the bureau want? Maybe they’d ID’d the murder victim, but he doubted it. That wouldn’t require a secure line.
    He stopped at the Shop ’N Go and took Redd with him while he used a pay phone. An agent answered on the second ring, and Justin identified himself.
    â€œThe bureau is letting you know you’re getting a felon on a work furlough at the local newspaper.”
    â€œOkay,” Justin responded, not surprised. Work furloughs used to be rare, but now prisons were packed. With one in every one hundred and fifty people in the country behind bars, furloughs were becoming more common every day to make space. “What’s his name?”
    â€œHer. It’s Kaitlin Wells. She stole money from the Mercury National Bank.”
    He vaguely recalled his mother telling him about the case. “When’s she coming?”
    â€œShe’s on the way. We’ve arranged for housing, a job, a car. She’ll report to us, of course, but keep an eye on her. If you spot anything strange, call me on a secure line.”
    Â 
    T HE BELL ON Crestwood Realty’s door jingled, and Tori Wells looked up to see a hunk with long, khaki-clad legs, shoulders like a college jock, and killer blue eyes walk into the office. At his side was a copper-colored dog. The animal’s coat appeared to have been shaved, making it look very funky. The guy seemed vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t quite place him.
    â€œHi.” Tori flashed her megawatt smile. “May I help you?”
    He held out his hand, and she reached for it. “Justin Radner.”
    Tori felt her eyes widen as he clasped her hand in a death grip. Not Justin Radner. He’d been the star of Harrington High’s football team, and he’d