“So turn him over to the state police. Let them sort it out.”

He shifted in his seat and stared at me with cold, ruthless eyes. “Do you have any idea what can of worms would be opened if I did that?” He snorted. “No. This is a Drum problem, and it needs to be taken care of in Drum.” Tilting his head to the side, he studied me as if I were a conundrum he wasn’t sure how to handle. “So you’re claimin’ you heard them but didn’t see their faces?” He leaned forward until he was halfway across the table, his face only a couple of feet from mine. I could smell tobacco on his breath. “You’re telling me that you didn’t look out the window?” A grin cracked his lips. “You expect me to believe that? You seem like a curious kind of gal.”

“The lighting in the parking lot sucks,” I said, my pulse pounding in my head. “Their faces were covered in shadows. But I know their voices. Cecil was definitely one of them. I recognized his voice straightaway when he broke into Seth’s room.”

Bingham studied me for a moment. “So you’re sayin’ you’d recognize their voices if you heard them again?”

I didn’t answer, but he seemed pleased as punch. He sent off a quick text, then laid his phone facedown on the table.

I sat back and crossed my legs, giving him a hard look of my own. “I have something you want, and you expect me to just hand it over after you set me up for Dwight Henderson’s murder?”

He laughed. “I didn’t set you up for Henderson’s murder.”

“Then why does Detective Daniels have a hard-on to link me to these murders?”

He flicked a gaze to the bar behind me, then landed on my face. “Why do you think?”

“Bart Drummond.”

He grinned again, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Rumor has it he’s working on a multi-million-dollar project to revive the town. A resort and spa.”

“And two murders aren’t good for potential business,” I said, stating what I’d already guessed. “Better to pin it on the outsider, otherwise the town looks unsafe.”

Maybe they were the ones who’d gotten ahold of my gun and keys too, through someone who’d been near the scene.

I only hoped that Max hadn’t been involved in that.

He winked. “You sure you’ve only been in this town for a few days?”

I pushed out a breath, wondering if I was about to work out a deal with the devil. “I need help getting Bart Drummond off my back.”

He let out a belly laugh. “Not my problem.”

“It’s your problem when I hold information you want.”

He leaned forward again. “Tell you what. I’ll help get the monkey off your back if you tell me the numbers written on Seth’s hand.”

From the way Bingham had acted earlier, I’d believed he already had them. “If you don’t have the numbers, how’d you find out about them?”

“Henderson.”

“He told you before you killed him.”

He pressed his hands to his chest. “I didn’t kill him, but I did interrogate ’im.” He cast a lingering glance at his two men before turning back to me. “Wilson’s got a taste for violence. He got carried away, and the man died before I could get everything I needed.” He shrugged, yet the look in his eyes told me he wasn’t happy with his lieutenant. But surely this was good news for me. If Dwight had been beaten to death, it had to be obvious that I wasn’t the killer.

“Seth told me he had evidence, but he never said what,” I confessed. “And while I did see something written on his hand, I was too busy freaking out and trying to save his life to pay attention.” Then, hoping to convince him I didn’t remember, I added, “But I intentionally looked for them when I took Hank to the funeral home, and someone had burned them off.”

He scowled. “That was Henderson’s doin’.” He was lost in thought for a few seconds, then said, “Do you remember any of them?”

“There had to be eight or ten of them,” I said. “I think it started with a 673, but I don’t remember the rest.” It was a huge risk lying to him, but there was no way I was telling him that code. That video was the only way to expose the corrupt sheriff’s deputy. “I have no idea what they stand for. A bank account number maybe?”

A grin played on his lips. He knew what they stood for, and thankfully he seemed to accept my supposed ignorance.

The front door opened and a man walked in. He stopped at the entrance, scanning the room until his gaze landed on Bingham. He sauntered over but hesitated when he saw me.

It was the guy in the first photo Bingham had shown me.

“Have a seat, Thomas,” Bingham said good-naturedly.

Thomas put his hand on the back of the chair to my left and kept it there for a moment, as if deciding whether he wanted to follow orders. Ultimately, he sat.

Bingham leaned forward and directed his attention to his man. “What’s the latest word on the sheriff’s investigation into Henderson?”

The guy scrubbed his face, his hand shaking slightly. “Uh… The detective in charge of Chalmers’ murder was assigned to Henderson’s case too.”

It was him. He was the second guy. The triumphant look in Bingham’s eyes when he saw my reaction was confirmation that he knew it too.

Thomas cast a quick glance at me. “He seems determined to pin it on her, but Sheriff Fletcher ain’t buyin’ it.” He huddled in, lowering his voice. “Should we be talkin’ about this in front of her?”

“Why not?” Bingham asked with a shrug. “She won’t be in the position to tell anyone.” An evil grin played on his lips.

Did that mean he planned on killing me after all?

Somehow—call it intuition—I suspected he didn’t. He was playing Thomas like a fiddle and I was the bow.

“So who does the good sheriff like for Henderson’s murder?” Bingham asked.

Thomas gestured to Bingham. “They think you beat ’im for information.”

“Is that so?” Bingham asked with a knowing grin. “Looks like you’re in the clear, Ms. Moore.”

“Not necessarily,” I countered. “They won’t let it rest until they arrest someone, and if you’re responsible, it’s not like you’ll be turning yourself in.”

Bingham looked pleased I hadn’t admitted that I knew he was responsible. What was he up to?

“And Chalmers’ murder?” Bingham asked Thomas. “What’s the word on that?”

“They can’t find any evidence to pin it on her.”

“The bullet casings at the scene?” Bingham asked.

“They weren’t the same caliber of bullets that killed the boy.” He leaned closer, looking worried.

“What aren’t you telling me?” Bingham asked, his voice turning hard.

I was prepared for him to say they were from another gun—my gun—but he surprised me. “They were the same caliber that killed George Davis.” He paused and licked his lip as though debating whether to continue. His back straightened and a resolve filled his eyes. “Fired from the same gun.”

“Barb Chalmers’ boyfriend?” I blurted out in shock.