It wasn’t unusual to get a late-night call from the Lamplight, but that was generally on a Saturday night, not a weeknight. The caller hadn’t been making much sense. Still, he was there now. He pulled into the parking lot, illuminating the scene with his high beams, flashers on. The lights showed him a cluster of figures grouped around something on the ground. Adrenaline pumped as he strode toward them. “What’s going on?” he demanded. The crowd parted, revealing the figure in the center. With what felt like a kick in the chest, he realized it was Kate. She was sitting on the ground, a woman bending over her. The shock of wild bleached hair was enough for him to know her—Sheila Hileman, openhearted, generous, uneducated but shrewd as they came. “How is she, Sheila?” “She’ll do, Mac.” Sheila looked up from whatever she was doing to Kate’s hands. “Painful scrapes, but no bones broken.”
