The Innocent. Amanda Stevens

She stopped herself this time and clamped her lips together, as if that were the only way she could remain silent.

      “What time do you think you left the cemetery?” Abby asked.

      Fayetta sighed. “It takes me fifteen minutes to walk to the cemetery. That is, if no one stops to talk with me and no one did yesterday. I visited with Mama and Papa for maybe another fifteen minutes, no more, because the heat was so unbearable.”

      “So at 3:30, or thereabouts, you were already heading back home on Mimosa. Did you see anything unusual, any strange cars in the neighborhood? Anything at all?”

      “No, nothing like that. Except…” Fayetta paused. “I don’t know that I’d call it unusual, because from what I hear, those kids are always getting into some kind of mischief or other. But Tami Pratt’s boys almost got hit by a car. I saw it with my own two eyes.”

      “What happened?” Sam Burke was gazing at the poor woman so intently, Abby almost felt sorry for her. Fayetta’s fanning became even more vigorous.

      “They were on those blasted skateboards.” She looked extremely indignant. “And you know how kids are with those things. A body’s not safe on the street. I don’t know why something can’t be done.”

      Abby refrained from pointing out that there were worse activities for kids to engage in than skateboarding, but she’d heard about the Pratt boys. At thirteen and fifteen, Marcus and Mitchell had already been in a little trouble. Trespassing, vandalism—kid-type pranks that all too often escalated into more serious incidents. Abby jotted their names in her notebook.

      “What happened?” she asked.

      “They started to cross the street at the corner of Mimosa and Maple, whooping and hollering, not paying any attention to where they were going. When they got into the middle of the street, a car came tearing down Maple. It missed them by only inches, I mean. The two boys started yelling at the driver and shaking their fists, but I think it must have shaken them up pretty badly because they took off like a pair of scalded dogs on those skateboards.”

      “What about the car?” Sam Burke queried. “Do you remember the color?”

      “Of course. It was white, just like my Papa’s Studebaker.”

      “Do you remember the make or model?”

      She looked at him as if he were from a different planet.

      “Was it old or new?” Abby supplied. “Ford, Chevrolet…”

      Fayetta seemed at a loss. “Well, I don’t think it was old,” she finally said. “But I can’t swear that it was new, either. And I don’t know one brand of car from the other. Except for Studebakers. But you don’t see many of those these days.”

      “What about dents or scratches, anything about it that might have stood out in your mind?”

      She shook her head. “No. It was just a white car.”

      “Two-door or four-door?”

      “I—I’m not sure.”

      “Did the driver get out of the car?” Agent Burke asked.

      “No, but I imagine he was shaken up as well. You know how people like to sue these days, and from what I hear, Tami Pratt doesn’t have a nickel to her name since that no-good husband of hers took off with Wanda Jean—

      “How long did the driver remain at the intersection?”

      “No more than a second or two. Then he drove off like the devil himself was after him.”

      “He?”

      Fayetta hesitated. “I say he. I guess I still assume all drivers are men, but that’s not the case these days, is it? It could have been a woman.”

      “You didn’t get a look at the driver’s face?” Abby asked.

      “There wasn’t time. It all happened so fast, and I think he was wearing a cap or something. I was more concerned about the child in the back seat. She wasn’t wearing a seat belt. It’s a thousand wonders that poor little thing wasn’t thrown clean through the windshield.”

      “YEAH, RIGHT, you’re an FBI agent,” Marcus Pratt jeered an hour later when they’d tracked the boys down and Sam had introduced himself. As their mother had suggested, Sam and Abby had found the boys skateboarding at an abandoned gas station a few blocks from their home, blithely ignoring the No Trespassing signs posted in conspicuous areas.

      “What makes you think I’m not FBI?” Sam asked.

      “Because you’re way too old, man. I bet you couldn’t chase down a crook if your life depended on it.”

      “We can’t all look like Agent Mulder,” Sam said, nodding toward the “X-Files” T-shirt the younger boy wore. He glanced at Abby and saw that she was trying hard, without much success, to hide a grin. She would find this amusing, he thought dryly, especially after he’d come down so hard on her after the interview with Fayetta Gibbons.

      “Didn’t you people even talk to that woman? We should have known about that car twenty-four hours ago. It could have made all the difference.”

      “You don’t know that,” Abby had retorted. “Sara Beth might not have been the child Fayetta saw in the back seat. And besides, if it hadn’t been for me, we still wouldn’t even know about the white car, and we wouldn’t know about the other two possible witnesses. I didn’t see you glean much information from her, especially after you alienated her five seconds into the interview.”

      She was right, of course. Abby had an easy rapport with the locals that made them trust her in a way they never would an outsider. But that knowledge didn’t lessen Sam’s frustration. In truth, it probably added to it.

      He didn’t know why Abby Cross grated on his nerves the way she did, or why he felt an almost compulsive need to pick an argument with her and to find fault with her. Maybe it was the heat and the tension of working a life-and-death case.

      Or maybe it was because he just didn’t want to acknowledge the sexual tension that had been dancing between them like a live wire all afternoon.

      She’s too young for you, a voice warned inside his head. Too young and too naive.

      But, unfortunately, his body was telling him something else.

      Marcus Pratt’s derisive snicker drew Sam’s attention back to the conversation with an unpleasant thud. “Agent Mulder you definitely ain’t,” the kid taunted. “Skinner maybe,” he added, alluding to an older—and balder—character on the same show.

      Sam suppressed the urge to run his hand through his hair—still thick in most places—along with the desire to muzzle the boy’s smart mouth. At fifteen, Marcus Pratt had obviously developed an unhealthy contempt for authority figures, male ones especially. It was an attitude that would likely carry him far in life. First to school detention. Then juvenile hall. Then prison, if something didn’t happen to get him back on track.

      Sam recognized the type. The father had deserted the family, leaving a young mother to cope with the difficulties of raising two boys. But Tami Pratt was no shrinking violet. Sam had gotten the impression that the woman’s personality could be a bit overwhelming at times, and her oldest son was desperately trying to assert his masculine dominance. To make matters worse, he was slight for his age. What he lacked in stature, he tried to make up for in bluster.

      His thirteen-year-old brother was almost as tall, but there was no mistaking the pecking order. Mitchell hung back, swiping his dirty blond hair out of his face while he allowed his brother to do all the talking.

      “We’d like to ask you boys a few questions, if you don’t mind,” Abby said.

      Marcus cocked his head toward her. “So who’s she supposed to be? Agent Scully?”

      His insolent gaze raked over Abby’s jeans and T-shirt in a manner that