"Physical evidence," he said. "You've got no bruising visible anywhere. Your skin is clear. Light makeup, too light to be hiding anything. It's certainly not hiding the fact you're blushing like crazy. You look like you've just stepped out of the beauty parlor. And you're moving easily. You skipped across that parking lot like a ballerina. So you're not hurting anyplace. You're not stiff and sore. If he's hitting you almost every day, he must be doing it with a feather."
She was quiet for a beat. Then she nodded.
"There's more to tell you," she said.
He looked away.
"The crucial part," she said. "The main point."
"Why should I listen?"
She took another drinking straw and unwrapped it. Flattened the paper tube that had covered it and began rolling it into a tight spiral, between her finger and thumb.
"I'm sorry," she said. "But I had to get your attention."
Reacher turned his head and looked out of the window, too. The sun was moving the bar of shadow across the Cadillac's hood like the finger on a clock.
His attention? He recalled opening his motel room door that morning. A brand-new day, ready and waiting to be filled with whatever came his way. He recalled the reflection of the cop in the mirror and the sticky whisper of the Cadillac's tires on the hot pavement as they slowed alongside him.
"O.K., you got my attention," he said, looking out at the car.
"It happened for five whole years," she said. "Exactly like I told you, I promise. Almost every day. But then it stopped, a year and a half ago. But I had to tell it to you backward, because I needed you to listen to me."
He said nothing.
"This isn't easy," she said. "Telling this stuff to a stranger."
He turned back to face her. "It isn't easy listening to it."
She took a breath. "You going to run out on me?"
He shrugged. "I almost did, a minute ago."
She was quiet again.
"Please don't," she said. "At least not here. Please. Just listen a little more."
He looked straight at her.
"O.K., I'm listening," he said.
"But will you still help me?"
"With what?"
She said nothing.
"What did it feel like?" he asked. "Getting hit?"
"Feel like?" she repeated.
"Physically," he said.
She looked away. Thought about it.
"Depends where," she said.
He nodded. She knew it felt different in different places.
"The stomach," he said.
"I threw up a lot," she said. "I was worried, because there was blood."
He nodded again. She knew what it felt like to be hit in the stomach.
"I swear it's true," she said. "Five whole years. Why would I make it up?"
"So what happened?" he said. "Why did he stop?"
She paused, like she was aware people might be looking at her. Reacher glanced up, and saw heads turn away. The cook, the waitress, the two guys at the distant tables. The cook and the waitress were faster about it than the two guys chose to be. There was hostility in their faces.
"Can we go now?" she asked. "We need to get back. It's a long drive."
"I'm coming with you?"
"That's the whole point," she said.
He glanced away again, out of the window.
"Please, Reacher," she said. "At least hear the rest of the story, and then decide. I can let you out in Pecos, if you won't come all the way to Echo. You can see the museum. You can see Clay Allison's grave."
He watched the bar of shadow touch the Cadillac's windshield. The interior would be like a furnace by now.
"You should see it anyway," she said. "If you're exploring Texas."
"O.K.," he said.
"Thank you," she said.
He made no reply.
"Wait for me," she said. "I need to go to the bathroom. It's a long drive."
She slid out of the booth with uninjured grace and walked the length of the room, head down, looking neither left nor right. The two guys at the tables watched her until she was almost past them and then switched their blank gazes straight back to Reacher. He ignored them and turned the check over and dumped small change from his pocket on top of it, exact amount, no tip. He figured a waitress who didn't talk didn't want one. He slid out of the booth and walked to the door. The two guys watched him all the way. He stood in front of the glass and looked out beyond the parking lot. Watched the flat land bake under the sun for a minute or two until he heard her footsteps behind him. Her hair was combed and she had done something with her lipstick.