“What does that mean?”

One side of his mouth lifted into a wry grin. “I made you a promise, Ms. Gardner. I told you that I’d get you a meeting with William Yates, although I can’t guarantee his client will be present. I’m Mr. Yates’s least favorite person in the world so this is going to take some doing. But I’m a man of my word.”

It was funny how my opinion of him had changed in only a few days. “I believe that you are, Mr. Deveraux. Thank you.”

“Stick around the courthouse. I’m sure this meeting will occur during the lunch break. I’ll call you when I know something.”

He disappeared around the corner and I collapsed on the bench. Never in a million years would I have believed Mason Deveraux would help me. Even if it was obviously against his better judgment.

I had to admit I was surprised that Mason was so concerned that Skeeter would try to hurt me. Sure, I’d asked some questions, but the more I thought about it, I wasn’t any type of threat. Skeeter was just trying to scare me with the note. Especially if Skeeter hadn’t murdered Frank Mitchell. I didn’t even know if Skeeter was Mr. Mitchell’s bookie, although I suspected he was. But my instinct told me the bald guy hanging around the hardware store was the real murderer, and it was obvious he wasn’t Skeeter. Why had the bald guy come back?

Ten minutes later my phone rang and caller ID showed Mason Deveraux’s number. “He’ll meet you at twelve-forty-five in room 216. Don’t be late.”

“Thank you.”

“This wasn’t easy to arrange so I hope you get what you need out of it.”

“Thanks.”

At 12:44, I stood outside of room 216. I half-expected Mason Deveraux to show up and escort me in, but was thankful for his absence. What I wasn’t prepared for was the sheriff’s deputy stationed outside the door. What did Mr. Yates think I was capable of doing?

I reached up to knock, but the deputy pushed the door open.

Sitting at the table was William Yates. And next to him sat Bruce Wayne Decker.

Once I crossed the threshold, the door closed behind me.

Mr. Yates’s left hand tapped the table with an ink pen. “I hope this isn’t a waste of our time, Ms. Gardner.”

“I’ll try my best to make sure it’s not.”

“Have a seat.” He motioned to the chair across from him, then scribbled a note on the legal pad.

Pulling out my seat, I couldn’t help staring at Bruce. He seemed smaller close up. More fragile, which struck me as ridiculous. Joe was right. Bruce was a criminal. Yet there was a difference between Bruce and Daniel Crocker, and Skeeter Malcolm. Crocker and Malcolm were hardened men who thought nothing of disposing of people in their way. I could see it in their eyes. But Bruce was soft and made me think of a dried-up autumn leaf, tossed around in the wind and easily crushed.

“Do you plan to stare at my client all day, Ms. Gardner, or do you actually have something to share with us?”

“Oh, sorry.” I slid onto the chair and placed my hands on the table. I had no idea where to start. Maybe I should have spent more time going over my speech and less time obsessing over my personal life. I looked into Bruce’s face. “First of all, I know you are innocent.”

Relief filled his eyes, but Mr. Yates snapped me back to reality. “And exactly how do you know this?”

“Um… I overheard the real killer in the bathroom.”

Mr. Yates tensed then rolled his eyes. “And what did he say? What did he look like? How did you hear this in the bathroom? Did you see Jesus in your toast this morning too?”

I pursed my lips in disapproval. “There’s no need to be snippy, Mr. Yates. In case you hadn’t noticed, I went to jail tryin’ to get evidence to prove Mr. Decker is innocent.”

“That doesn’t mean a thing. In today’s media hungry, five-minutes-worth-of-fame craze, people do stupid things to get attention. Who’s to say you didn’t get used to the attention with your own mother’s murder? Maybe you miss the spotlight, so now you’re trying to recapture it with this cockamamie story.”

I squinted in disbelief. “Is that really what you think I’m doin’? Tryin’ to get my five minutes of fame?”

Mr. Yates pushed back his chair, the legs screeching across the floor. “I’ve heard enough. I’ve done my end of the bargain. We’re done here.”

Bruce looked down at his hands, which were folded neatly on the table. “No.”

Mr. Yates’s eyebrows rose. “What?”

Bruce looked up and held my gaze. “No. I want to hear what she has to say.”

Shaking his head, Mr. Yates patted Bruce’s arm. “I understand your desperation—”

I cleared my throat. “Why didn’t you point out that Bruce is right-handed?”

“What in tarnation does that have to do with anything?”

“Mr. Mitchell’s head wound was on the right side.”

“So what?”

“The murderer is left-handed.”

He paused, staring at me with a hard look. The overhead lights reflected off the top of his nearly bald head. “And how do you know this?”

I couldn’t tell him about my vision “I just do.”

“You just do.” Disgust drenched his words and he resumed tapping the table with his pen in a steady beat. “My client is curious, so indulge us with what else you just know.”