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reached a dead end, at least for now. Maybe when Ina Jo shows up—”
    “Do you have any visual recordings of interviews with the previous victims?”
    “Nah. Not really. For the most part, we didn’t get a chance to videotape anything. The women bolted before we could set anything up. Why?”
    “Sometimes body language or verbal clues will relay a great deal of information.”
    The sheriff tapped his lips with his finger. “Interesting. We might . . .”
    “Yes?”
    “We had one woman we interviewed and taped. We weren’t all that sure she was a victim of the Hillbilly Rapist.”
    “Maybe a copycat?”
    “Something like that. I can arrange for you to watch the interview.”
    “Sounds good. And what about surveillance videos? I can develop a sketch should you have something blurry or from a weird angle.”
    “We might have one,” Clay said. “It may not be anything, but the timing was about right and no one could make hide nor hair from the photo.”
    “Let me look at it and let you know.”
    Clay punched a button on his desk phone. “Reed here. Have someone set up the conference room and pull the Johnson interview . . . Oh. When will they be done? Okay, set it up for then. Yeah. Okay.” He disconnected. “I’ve set it up for this afternoon. I’ll run you back to your hotel.” He stood.
    “Okay, but—”
    “I’ll send a car at one thirty to pick you up.”
    He opened the door to his office and glanced at me.
    “One more thing.” I rose from the chair. “I was almost hit last night.”
    Clay frowned at me. “What do you mean?”
    “I was walking back to the hotel when someone driving a black pickup tried to run me down.”
    “Did you get a license plate?”
    “No. The truck sped around the corner before I could get a good look at it.”
    Clay rubbed his chin, then tugged his ear. “Well, Miz Gwen, I suspect that was just a drunk. Why would anyone want to hurt you?”
    Except you told the local television station. Which means you’re lying. Again.

CHAPTER SIX
    CLAY’S RESPONSE PUT ME ON HIGH ALERT FOR black pickups. Unfortunately, black seemed to be the most popular color for trucks in this part of Kentucky.
    Driving from one end of town to the other didn’t take long. The horseshoe-shaped town of Pikeville had a population of just under seven thousand. Tree-covered mountains rose steeply on all sides.
    During the short drive, Clay relaxed enough to update me on the history of the community. “Although folks have lived around here since the mid-seventeen hundreds”—he pointed to a terraced mountain rising above the road—“that’s what really helped the town grow. The Pikeville Cut-Through Project. Officially started in 1973, it took fourteen years to move eighteen million cubic yards of earth. That allowed the town to grow to more than four hundred acres.”
    “Which explains why a lot of buildings look new.”
    “Yep. We have a university, new library, shopping center—everything a big city has but with a small-town feel.”
    Including big-city crime. I kept my thoughts to myself as we pulled up in front of the hotel. “Did you grow up here?”
    “Nearby.”
    “You sure seem proud of your town.”
    “And of Kentucky. We have plans—” He stopped abruptly.
    I pretended not to notice a possible slip of the tongue and stepped from the car. “See you later.” Plans? We?
    The stricken look on the clerk’s face told me Ina Jo hadn’t been found locked up in the laundry room. I didn’t much feel like eating, so stopped off at the vending machine on the way to my room. I bought cheese puffs, Oreos, and a chocolate bar. With my daughter safely with her father, I didn’t have to be a good example.
    The phone was ringing as I entered, but no one was on the line when I answered. I rang the front desk. “Did you just put a call through to my room?”
    “No. I mean, it’s an automated system. If someone knows your room number, they can dial direct.”
    I hung up and stared at