“You don’t think Evalyn killed Margo?”
“No.”
“Then I don’t see that there’s anything to decide. There’s only one right thing to do.” She caught one of his hands and pulled him down to sit beside her.
“I’m not a child, Mike,” she said quietly. “And I haven’t any folks — no one who’ll be hurt by the scandal if things go wrong. I have to keep on living with myself. How do you think it would be if I said no, and all my life lived with the knowledge that a murderer may be walking the streets free because I was afraid to take a chance with you?” Her soft finger tips caressed the back of his hand. “You wouldn’t be very proud of me if I did that. It’s strange that what you think of me matters, but it does.” She laughed softly. “I’m not making love to you, but I’d hate myself forever if I forced you to do something for which you’d hate yourself.”
Shayne said huskily, “I’ve known one other girl like you, Lucile.”
“What became of her?”
“She died.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, and gave his hand a final pat.
He continued to sit on the edge of the couch. “New Orleans has been good for me. I’ve been here about sixteen hours, and I’ve been beaten up by the cops, arrested on a drunk and disorderly charge, accused of murder, blackjacked, Mickey-Finned, given a suspended sentence on a frame, and, by God, I feel fine.”
“And had your picture taken,” she reminded him.