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meeting with her this afternoon was to see if she believed in his innocence. He couldn’t work with her if she didn’t. Her broadcast last year insinuated she believed him, but he had to know that hadn’t been to add emotional appeal to her “local hero” story. Judging from the sincerity in her eyes and her body language as she shifted forward in her seat, she believed Tucker.
    He could handle Stanley Carlton pointing the finger at him. He could even handle an occasional whisper when he ran into certain people around town. But he couldn’t handle Lexie McCain, a woman he admired and respected, and whose opinion mattered to him more than he dared admit, believing he was capable of killing those women. Of killing Abby.
    Her head tilted and she glanced back down at the article detailing Abby’s murder. Then she turned the page and ran her finger down the transcript from the televised news reports covering the case. Each member of the task force had the same information, and each had noted the discrepancy in tone between the newspaper’s coverage and the televised version, the one from WGXA, Lexie’s station. She flipped back and forth, comparing the two.
    John knew her question before she asked. “Paul Kingsley.”
    “What about Paul?”
    “You want to know why the article attempts to crucify me, but the news correspondent didn’t go for blood when a homicide detective was suspected of murdering his wife.”
    She flipped the pages again. “Based on the newspaper’s account, you were the prime suspect when this broadcast aired, yet the context of the televised version implies the police suspected the wrong man.”
    “Paul Kingsley is a friend, a good friend. The two of us hung out together as teens, and he and his ex-wife, Kathleen, were friends of mine and Abby’s. He knew I hadn’t hurt Abby, that I’d never hurt her. There was no way he’d let WGXA insinuate that I did. He ran the truth, the basic facts, and left it at that. In a town this size, even if something isn’t spelled out, everyone knows. Plus, the newspaper reported the truth too, the FBI version.”
    “You’re right. I heard about your suspected involvement when I moved here. But, being a reporter, I’ve learned that you can’t believe everything you hear, and—”
    “—and only half of what you see.”
    She smiled, and again he enjoyed the gesture. Smiles were rare in a homicide detective’s world. “And when I interviewed you, I knew. Even though I’d already read about the evidence clearing you as a suspect, I knew when I talked to you that you weren’t a killer. And you loved your wife. I can see that now when you look at her photograph.”
    He had loved Abby, enough to forgive her. “Journalistic instincts?”
    “I suppose so. Or perhaps it’s the ability to realize when someone isn’t a killer. You aren’t a killer.” She gave him another reassuring smile.
    “You have a side job as a profiler now? Because if so, I’d much rather recommend you to the FBI than the last guy they sent.”
    A small laugh bubbled forward. “Not a profiler. But I can read most people. It’s part of the job.”
    “And it’s the part I’m counting on to help us nail this guy.” His chair squeaked as he leaned forward. “So, do you have any questions for me, before the task force meets?”
    “Just one.”
    “Shoot.”
    “Who do you think it is?”
    She’d asked the one question that’d haunted him for over a decade. Who killed Abby? Who killed all the others? He shook his head and gave her the truth.
    “I don’t know.”
     
    Angel Jackson crossed the Bibb County line, while Special Agent Stanley Carlton’s voice filled her SUV. She’d memorized the previous profiler’s assessment, but she had waited her entire career for a chance at the Sunrise Killer and wanted every bit of ammunition available. That included all of Carlton’s observations, even if, on some counts, they disagreed.
    She wasn’t about to assume he’d reached