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I've hunted her all night. Now she's standing in front of me, and I'm already turning toward the man driving away from her.

I could catch him before the end of Main Street and drag him out through his own window. I've pictured doing it every night since she drew his brand on my arm.

I don't take a step after him.

If I put Coleman Whitlock on the pavement this morning, his lawyers would have me charged with assault by noon. He'd have every excuse to clean out that cellar, and any women still down there would be on a truck before a deputy got near his gate.

Yesterday I hit a heavy bag in anger, and my own rule kept me from touching her all night. One punch at Whitlock, and the rule keeps me from her tonight too.

I memorize his plate before his taillights turn north at the corner.

"He's gone," I tell her. "You can put that down."

She turns. Her face is white, and her eyes are red-rimmed but dry. She lowers the tire iron to her side and keeps hold of it.

"How did you find me?"

"Ozzie. A few minutes after you left, I called him and told him to put the word out on my truck. After that I called Beckett off his watch at Whitlock's, and we've been up and down every road in this county all night. We drove past that parsonage more than once and past Whitlock's front gate more times than that. At first light, the man unloading bread at the bakery saw my truck go by and called Ozzie, and Ozzie called me."

I step between her and the street, so anything else that pulls in off Main has to come through me first.

"I waited for daylight," she says. "I knew you'd look at the parsonage first."

Behind me, Beckett's truck door opens and shuts. He walks out to the edge of the lot and stands with his back to us, watching the road. He still won't let anybody look at that shoulder.

"What did Whitlock say to you?" I ask.

She looks at the corner where his taillights disappeared. "'Welcome home, Delilah. Your daddy's paper is still open.'"

Her daddy's paper. The marker I sold Whitlock.

"My guess is he came to show you he can reach you anywhere he likes," I say. "In daylight, at your own daddy's church, with his window down."

"He came to look at the doors." She tips her head toward the church. "He didn't slow down for anything else on Main. He came to look at it, which means he already knew it was there."

JEZEBEL

It's red spray paint, running in long drips down both doors and onto the stone steps. The letters reach from the brass handles nearly to the top of the frame.

I want to break something. I take out my phone instead and photograph the doors from every angle, close enough to show the drips.

I photograph the parsonage next. Its front curtain has just dropped back into place.

I text Ozzie the first picture.

Who in this town bought red spray paint this week. Quiet.

"Your daddy's in there," I say.

"He's mine to deal with." Her grip shifts on the tire iron. "Don't you dare knock on that door."

"I wasn't planning to knock."

"You were going to take it off the hinges." She looks at the curtain, then back at me. "He called Coleman, Knox. The night they took me. At supper I told Daddy I was going to the Cattle Guard. Afterward he picked up the phone and told Coleman where I'd be."

I look at the curtain and picture the man behind it dialing Whitlock while his daughter dried the supper dishes.

"Coleman bought his marker," she says. "He told Daddy he'd only keep me a day or two, until Daddy found the money. Daddy never found it. A few weeks later, Coleman told him the marker was torn up and I'd run off with some man from San Antonio. Daddy owed that money, and he let me pay it. Then he stood up in the pulpit every Sunday like nothing happened."