She was a tall, blonde drink of water in the shortest skirt Jefferson had ever seen south of Kentucky. By the look on Ralph’s face, pen poised over paper to take notes, it was the shortest skirt he’d ever seen period. Maybe women dressed like that in New York City but they surely didn’t in Lake Derry.

Molly Ridgway, a widow at all of 22, put her cigarette out right on the chief’s desk (now Jefferson’s) and crossed those long, tan legs of hers. Jefferson briefly wondered if she’d ever dared to do that when her husband had sat behind it.

“Can I please see Caleb?” She purred. The Yankee accent grated, but that wasn’t what bugged him. There was an odd youthful optimism to her manner – not at all the voice of a grieving woman.

Jefferson ignored her query. Politeness was a luxury he couldn’t afford.

“Ma’am, there’s a killer running loose in Lake Derry. I aim to catch him. I’m gonna ask some questions. And you’re gonna answer ‘em.”

Molly’s eyes lit up with a strange fire.

“How can I help, Chief?”