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“Did you report it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because Neil owned my parole, and I still thought I could collect enough to take the whole thing to Torres.”

Torres does not rescue me from the answer.

“The barrel racer last night?” she asks.

“Clint was working his way toward her at the bar. She was young, drunk, and alone. Neil never gave me her name, but I knew the pattern.”

“What did you do?”

“Told her to walk away.”

A corner of Torres’s mouth almost moves. “How many times have you intervened in one way or another?”

“Enough that he started checking before he believed me.”

The AUSA looks up. “But you didn’t stop every introduction.”

“No.”

“Tell us about Lubbock.”

For a moment, the room contains nothing but the ventilation system and the recorder.

“Neil found me between two trailers after my run,” I say. “He stayed outside the floodlights. He always did.”

“What did he give you?”

“A padded envelope.”

“What did he say?”

“Clint’s trailer. Route exception’s already approved.”

“Did you ask what was inside?”

“No.”

“Where did you put it?”

“In the gooseneck compartment on Clint’s trailer. I dropped it there on my way into the bar.”

Torres’s voice remains level. “And Sandy?”

“She was at the counter.”

“What was she wearing?”

“A denim jacket. Pins on the collar. One was shaped like a horseshoe.” I can see it better than I can see the room. “She was laughing with a barrel racer when I walked up.”

“What did you say to her?”

“I asked whether Glenna had explained the arrangement.”