Today it was a burger, fries, and a vanilla shake from a drive-through. She flattened the burger’s wrapper in her lap, balancing the burger between her thighs as she drove to the crash site. She alternated sips of the shake with bites of burger without a second thought. Fifty percent of her intake was consumed on the go. A meal at a table with no interruptions was a thing to be cherished. At least this grub was warm and did not come from a vending machine.

She had polished off the burger and sucked on the straw—always important to end the meal on a sweet note—as she pulled onto the correct side of Cox Road.

Ramsey had made a wrong turn and ended up on the other side. Had BB done the same, but was traveling too fast?

She drove to the crash site. The car had been towed away, and all that remained were the red flares that had burned down to black ash. She shut off the car and stepped outside.

The air was thick with a coiling humidity, and the evening sun still tipped the mercury well over ninety degrees. The summer heat in Nashville could be brutal. Most visitors pictured the cooler temperatures of the Smoky Mountains, which were a couple of hours east.

She shrugged off her jacket and tossed it on her driver’s seat before locking the car door. The fresh strand of yellow crime scene tape stood still in the motionless air.

She ducked under the tape and looked again for skid marks. There appeared to be none. BB had been rushing. Maybe worried about her encounter with Sonny? Had she been talking on the phone? Yelling at Elena? Distracted by the jar in the trunk? Whatever was going through her mind, she had not seen what was coming.

She reached the edge of the woods and looked back. Twenty feet away she spotted very faint tire marks. Melina walked heel to toe along the length of the faint skid mark. Less than ten feet long. This had not been a frantic stop.

She studied the distance to the woods. It was maybe twenty feet. There were equations that could determine how fast the car had been traveling based on the distance and the damage to the car.

Mr. Brewer, her ninth-grade math teacher, had always warned her that there were real-world applications for algebra and geometry. His terse you-will-be-sorry lectures had not motivated her beyond a B minus, but now she might concede she owed the guy an apology.

She got in her car, pulled around, and nosed the front of her car toward the marks. Guessing that BB might have been rushing, she punched the gas until her speed reached forty miles an hour. When she reached the existing tire marks, she hit her brakes, stopped.

She parked her car on the side of the road, got out, and walked to the tire impression she had made. Next, she studied the tread left presumably by BB. They were almost identical, suggesting BB had been traveling at about forty miles an hour. It was not an excessive amount of speed, and she had stopped well short of the woods. There was no way she could not have seen the dead end.

Maybe she had been spooked. Maybe she was being followed and knew she could not turn back. Cornered, she had chanced driving through the woods, never expecting the tree trunk.

She looked down the tree-lined street to the houses. Had BB been visiting someone on the street?

She walked to the end of the skid marks and nudged the burned-out police flare with the tip of her boot. She followed the tire marks off the road into tall grass and surrounding stumps. From the road, she could understand why someone desperate to get away would try to cross it when the other side was visible one hundred feet away.

Pushing through waist-high grass and scrub, she followed the tent markers left by the forensic tech and trailing BB’s escape. Sweat collected between her breasts and shoulder blades. She shoved up her sleeves and kept walking.

It took almost a minute before she reached the final yellow marker. She found herself standing on the cul-de-sac where Ramsey had dead-ended earlier. This street, like the one on the other side, cut through a middle-class neighborhood made up of small clapboard homes.

Unless someone had seen BB running or a security camera had picked up her escape, she was in the wind.

Time to knock on doors. She picked the first house on the right. There was a blue Chevrolet parked in the driveway. The house was one level and had an exterior porch running its length. There was a planter filled with bright-yellow pansies. Both the yard and house were well cared for. The porch was swept and the windows clean. This person was meticulous, which made them a better witness candidate. She rang the bell.

Inside the house, the steady clip of footsteps drew closer before the door snapped open. The woman standing on the other side of the screened door appeared to be in her late sixties. She wore a floral sleeveless dress, and her gray hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail.

“May I help you?” The woman’s rusty voice was laced with a deep Tennessee drawl.

Melina held up her badge. “My name is Agent Melina Shepard. I’m with the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation. There was a car accident nearby, and I was hoping you’d let me ask you a few questions.”

“I’m Caroline White. I spoke to the Nashville police this morning. I didn’t have much to say.”

“Did the officer ask you about the accident?”

“He did. I saw the police sirens and lights. Sounded like it was quite a big fuss. We have cars get fooled by Cox Road all the time. Both sides were supposed to be connected, but the folks on either end protested, myself included, because we didn’t want it to turn into a speedway, which is exactly what it would be. Anyway, there are maps that show it connects.”

“Ms. White, were you home this morning?”

Ms. White pushed open the screened door. “I was. But why don’t you come in so I can pour you a glass of water or tea? It’s blazing hot out here, and you look like you’re about to burn up.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” She stepped inside, cool air chilling her skin as she scanned the small living room. It was decorated in a kind of country charm decor that included overstuffed furniture, lots of ruffled pillows, and more pictures of children and grandchildren than she could count. All these kids had plump faces and wide grins. The images stood in stark contrast to Elena’s drawn features.

She looked toward a kitchen as she also noted there was a hallway to her right. “Do you live alone?”

“I do,” she said as she waved Melina toward the kitchen. “I’ve been in this house for thirty-six years. My Silas and I raised our four children here.”

The air-conditioning was still cooling her skin as Melina walked into the kitchen. A pot rack hung over a small island made of the same brown wood as the cabinets. Most of the beige countertops were covered with rows of cookbooks, an Elvis cookie jar, and an assortment of appliances.

Ms. White offered Melina water or tea, and Melina opted for the former. When she accepted the glass and drank, she was amazed how good it tasted. “Thanks. That hit the spot.”

“Good. Got to take care of our police.”

“Did you hear the accident?”

“I might have. I had the news on, but I didn’t have my hearing aids in yet. The television was turned up. Used to drive my husband nuts but he’s gone, so I turn it up as loud as I want now. Anyway, I thought I heard a thump around 11:00 a.m. I should have gone to look, but they were doing a story on the Prince and Princess of Wales and I do love that British royalty.”

“You didn’t see anyone run past?”

“No, I didn’t, but I can tell you that Jordie Tanner across the street has one of those security cameras.”

“On his doorbell?”

“No, Jordie has a camera in his trees. He points it right at the cul-de-sac. We’ve had kids park down there, and they can create quite a fuss.”

Melina set her empty glass on the island, pulled her notebook from her back pocket, and jotted down the man’s name. “Do you know if the officer spoke to Jordie?”

“I’m sure he knocked on his door, but Jordie is a long-haul trucker and he won’t be back in town for a couple of days. I didn’t think about the camera in his tree until just now. I should have told the officer, but it completely slipped my mind.”

“Do you have Jordie’s phone number?”

“Sure.” She walked to a wall-mounted phone. Taped to the wall beside it was a list of numbers. “Ready?”

“Shoot.” As Ms. White recited the number, Melina scribbled it down. “Great. I’ll give him a call today.”

She tucked her notebook back in her back pocket. “Thank you for the water. I want to get across the street and have a look at the camera. Anyone else on the street who might have seen the accident?”

“That, I don’t know. I’m the only one on the block who’s retired. Most of these folks work jobs that get them up and out the door before the sun. Many take overtime or work a second shift.”

“Thank you again,” Melina said.

“Of course, honey. Stop by anytime.”

When Melina stepped out into the heat, it felt twice as hot and thick as it had moments ago. Amazing what your body could become accustomed to in such a short amount of time.