Tim muttered. Lucie snapped her head around, held his stare for a solid five seconds as panic—not the faster-than-a-speeding-bullet kind, but the meandering kind that shredded each bone of each limb—slowly ate through her body. “Willie?” Dad said, “’Bout damned time. I’m putting you on speaker. I got two detectives here getting on Lucie about some dress that got lifted yesterday.” He punched the button on the screen, then waggled the phone. “Say hello to Willie Clay.” Tim attempted not to roll his eyes at Dad’s dramatics. “We’ve met,” he said, clearly referring to the last time Lucie got—as the guys at Petey’s liked to say—pinched for unknowingly storing stolen track suits in her back room. Willie had come to her aid and met Tim in the process. “Who do we have there?” Willie asked. Tim finally leaned forward. “Mr. Clay, this is Detective O’Brien.
