She was living under her married name in a small town near the Oklahoma border, running a flower shop with blue shutters and wind chimes at the door. She was older now, with tired eyes and soil under her fingernails. When Amelia introduced herself, Karen nearly dropped the vase she was holding.
“I already told police what I knew,” Karen said.
“No,” Amelia replied gently. “You told them what you were asked.”
Karen looked toward the back of the shop, where a teenage boy was sweeping leaves from the floor. “Eli, go take lunch.”
“But Mom—”
“Now, please.”
The boy left through the rear door.
Karen locked the front entrance and turned the sign to CLOSED.
“I wondered when someone would come,” she said.
Amelia’s pulse quickened. “About Danton?”
Karen folded her arms, not defensively, but as if holding herself upright. “Lyle wasn’t at the bar until midnight. He came in wet from the rain. Mud on his shoes. He told me if anyone asked, he’d been there since eight.”
