Shame

looked behind her to make sure Caleb was still standing there, before hurrying across the street to her car.
    She drove over to a small strip mall and slowly circled the parking lot. The doughnut shop met her requirements. It had ample lighting and a glassed expanse that allowed good visibility for looking both in and out. On one side of the doughnut shop was a restaurant and on the other side a bar. Across the street was an upscale pool hall. She watched young bodies bending over the tables and lining up their shots.
    The aroma coming out of D. G.’s reminded Elizabeth how hungry she was. The array of sweets displayed behind the counter didn’t do anything to abate her hunger. A young woman, vivacious even with a hairnet, smock, and smudge of flour on one of her red cheeks, helped Elizabeth decide between a buttermilk bar and a raised glaze with chocolate frosting.
    “When in doubt,” she said, “get both!”
    A young man was also working behind the counter. “Brandy knows from experience,” he said, “that one doughnut just isn’t enough.”
    “Guilty as charged,” Brandy said with a laugh.
    “And here I always heard that people who worked with sweets got sick of eating them,” Elizabeth said.
    “I wish,” said Brandy, laughing.
    Caleb entered the shop as Elizabeth was paying. He walked by her and chose to sit at the table farthest from the counter. It wouldn’t have been Elizabeth’s choice, but it still appeared safe enough. She joined him at the table, offered him one of her doughnuts, but he declined. Elizabeth looked at him, saw the image of his father, and had to turn away. She looked at him a second time but couldn’t hold her glance. Caleb reacted to her chagrin, kept having to confront his own embarrassment about who he was, and found himself looking away as well.
    With an averted glance he said, “I almost didn’t come tonight.”
    Elizabeth stared at the bridge of his nose, an old trick that made it seem as if she was maintaining eye contact. “I’m glad you did.”
    Head lowered, Caleb massaged his temples with his thumbs. “How’d you find me?”
    Elizabeth carefully considered what to tell him. “I was going through the Sanderses’ receipts and saw your name.”
    “That’s it?”
    “That’s it.”
    “Have the police connected me with—him—yet?”
    Why did he act as if he was more concerned about the police linking him with his father, than with the murder of Teresa Sanders? Elizabeth wasn’t sure how to answer his question. An honest response had its potential dangers, but to lie might stop him from talking.
    “No.”
    “You haven’t told them?”
    “No.”
    “Why?”
    “Because I wasn’t sure until I saw you.”
    “But you plan to tell them?”
    “Yes.”
    He shook his head and moved his hands. Several times he opened his mouth to speak and each time bit back words until he finally said, “I didn’t do it.”
    “What?”
    “Murder Mrs. Sanders. I mean, my doing that wouldn’t make any sense, would it?”
    “How do you mean it wouldn’t make any sense?”
    He again struggled for words before giving up and saying, “I’m not comfortable talking about any of this.”
    “It’s not something you can remain silent about.”
    “I suppose you have a recorder going.”
    “No.”
    “But you’re making mental notes for another book, aren’t you?”
    “That remains to be seen.”
    “I’m just supposed to trust you, is that it? What I say remains between you and me and a million of your readers.”
    “You’re presuming much,” she said.
    “And so are you. Because of my father, you’ve condemned me.”
    “No. That’s not so. But I certainly have questions.”
    “You’ve come to the wrong person, then.” “What do you mean?”
    “I’ve never had any answers.”
    “Tell me about Mrs. Sanders.”
    “I wouldn’t have murdered her, especially not that way. I run from trouble. That’s why I don’t want to talk to you or anyone about my father. I’ve spent my life trying to forget my past.”
    Especially not that way.
The words echoed in Elizabeth’s head. With her left hand she raised one of the doughnuts to her mouth, while her hidden right hand delved into her designer purse. Her handbag was special not because it had some French name on it but because it had a secret compartment for a gun. She pulled out her Lady Smith & Wesson but kept it out of sight under the table.
    “I hope forgetting your past doesn’t include forgetting