“Afraid not. She needs to come back to the station with me.”
Hattie allowed herself to rest her head on Mo’s shoulder for a moment. “What did he say?” Mo asked. “Did he admit to anything?”
Hattie managed a weak smile. “He confessed to everything, including killing Lanier Ragan and dumping her body in the septic tank pit. Also, he had a gun.”
“Did he hurt you?”
“No. I’ll explain the rest later.” She leaned down and scratched the dog’s ears. “This guy’s gonna get the biggest steak they’ve got at the IGA tomorrow.”
“But in the meantime,” Mak said, gesturing toward his police cruiser.
Hattie closed her eyes and sighed. Mo wrapped an arm around her waist. “Can I go with you to the police station? I won’t say anything. I just don’t want you to be alone.”
She looked to Makarowicz for approval, who nodded. “Okay. That would be nice,” she said.
* * *
Hours later, Mo tapped her gently on the shoulder. “Hey. You’re home.”
She managed to drag her eyelids open and yawn. “This is the second time this week that you’ve had to come to my rescue, Mo.”
“My pleasure.”
* * *
Hours later, she sat up and glanced frantically at the bedside clock. It was after nine. Ribsy was asleep at the foot of her bed and sunlight shone through the thin slats of the bamboo blinds. She staggered into the bathroom and splashed cold water onto her face. She looked a hot mess.
“Hey.” Mo’s voice called from outside the door. “Are you okay in there?”
“I missed my call time,” she said, opening the door and peeking out. “Did you stay here last night?”
“Yeah. I couldn’t see leaving you alone. That sofa of yours sucks, by the way.”
He handed her a mug of coffee. “I talked to the boss, which would be me, about this morning’s shoot and explained. This one time, you get an extension. Are you hungry?”
“Starved. But I gotta get out to the house. There’s still so much left to do.”
“Let Trae take care of it. He owes you. How about breakfast?”
“Let me grab a shower first. Can you let Ribsy out and then feed him?”
“On one condition.”
“Name it.”
“After you shower, you let me borrow a toothbrush.”
* * *
They drove Hattie’s truck back to Tybee, then waited in line at The Breakfast Club for ten minutes before taking the last two stools inside at the bar.
When Mo ordered shrimp and grits, Hattie feigned shock. “Are we finally turning you into a southerner, Mo Lopez?”
“We have grits in California,” he said. “But they don’t taste the same.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “Want to tell me about last night?”
In between sips of coffee, she gave him a recap of the night’s events.
“What happens now?”
“According to Makarowicz, Davis will be charged with murder, arson, and attempted kidnapping. And whatever else the district attorney can come up with.”
“I was on the phone with Rebecca while you were in the shower,” Mo said. “Makarowicz held a press conference this morning to announce Davis Hoffman’s arrest. Of course Becca’s already finagling how to turn this thing into ratings gold. She wants us to shoot an extra episode, sort of like an epilogue, with a true-crime kind of twist to it.”
Carefully, Hattie put her coffee mug down on the countertop. “Okay, but I want script approval. We do this my way, or not at all.”
“Seriously?”
“Very seriously. I’ve been through some drama in my own life. I don’t want this story to be sensationalized any more than it already has been. And I’ll only do it if Emma Ragan gives it her blessing. I won’t exploit her misery.”
The food arrived and Mo attacked his breakfast with a vengeance. Hattie picked at her omelet and nibbled at a piece of toast. “Well?”
“Okay,” Mo said. “Seems fair.”
71
Show Time
Hattie stood in the front yard at the Creedmore house and beamed. “It’s not even the same house. I don’t have words.”
Looking at it in the light of day, the transformation was startling. The formerly sagging, rotting porch stood proud, with a row of fluffy green fern baskets hanging between the columns, and huge iron urns filled with red geraniums and trailing ivy flanking the newly painted front door. The brass lanterns had been polished and gleamed in the sunlight.