“Please . . . no,” I begged. “Just call the police. The girl is . . . in . . . a shed . . . the woods. Forty yards . . . behind the apiary.” She tilted her head to the other side. “Did you kill Albert?” “No.” I panted. “That bitch . . . was . . . hollering and . . . Albert’s drunk ass . . . must . . . have heard it. He stumbled right . . . into the bees.”
