After the women left, the sheriff crossed his arms over his chest and glared at Lance. “What do you want?”

“The truth.” Lance went for it. “Is Evan your only suspect?”

“No, but he is on the list.” The sheriff dropped back into his chair. “Mrs. Knox wants to downplay the friction between Evan and Paul, but the neighbor heard the yelling and saw the boy take a swing at Paul. I’d call that a fight, even if Evan was the aggressor.”

“Mrs. Knox explained the incident.”

“Which doesn’t change the fact that the kid is a hothead with impulse control issues.”

“He isn’t normally,” Lance argued.

“But he could have been Monday night.”

It was times like this when Lance missed being on the police force. He didn’t enjoy being locked out of an investigation, begging for scraps of evidence. “What can you tell me about the autopsy? Frank would have moved Paul to the top of the list.”

The sheriff sighed. “I can’t share the results of the medical examiner’s preliminary report at this time. After we’ve made an arrest, the suspect’s attorney will receive the autopsy information.”

Frustration filled Lance. Colgate wasn’t going to cooperate. But Lance would find Evan if he had to go over, around, or through the sheriff’s roadblocks.

“Maybe the shooting was an accident,” Colgate suggested. “Accidental shootings happen to experienced gun handlers. By Mrs. Knox’s own admission, Evan is a beginner.”

Lance pictured the position of Paul’s body. The shot to his abdomen had to have come first. The heavy bleeding indicated that Paul’s heart had been pumping after he’d been shot. He’d definitely been alive. The bullet to Paul’s head had hardly bled at all. That had likely stopped Paul’s heart. Plus, the centering of the shot indicated the killer was close. Lance envisioned the killer standing over Paul, watching him bleed, and firing the head shot at close range while Paul lay helpless. The belly shot could have been an accident, but there was no way the head shot was unintentional. That had been a cold act, one that put Lance in mind of an execution or a hired killer.

This had been nothing short of murder.

“Do you really think a sixteen-year-old kid could have shot Paul in the head?” Lance asked.

“I’ve seen worse.”

Sadly, so had Lance.

The sheriff tapped the manila file folder with a finger. “Maybe Paul and Evan got into a fight when Evan missed curfew. He’d ignored Paul’s texts and calls. He was angry with his father and transferred that anger to Paul. The Glock was out because Paul had been cleaning it. Evan picked it up and shot Paul. He has a history of impulsive behavior.”

“But I know this kid. He didn’t do this.” Lance paced the length of the table and back.

“You’re letting your personal feelings interfere with your objectivity. If you were one of my deputies, I’d pull you from the case. You can’t ignore evidence.” Colgate’s voice was calm and reasonable, the exact opposite of the emotional turmoil in Lance’s head.

But Lance’s instincts were screaming that they were missing the biggest part of the case, and Colgate was focusing on the pieces of evidence that supported his narrative.

The sheriff continued. “Paul was killed with a 9mm bullet, which is the same caliber as his own Glock. Paul’s weapon is still missing, so we don’t know if he was shot with his own gun or simply another gun of the same caliber.”

“9mm is a common caliber,” Lance argued. “If there aren’t two guns, then why is Evan bleeding too?”

“We don’t know that Evan was shot. You saw the broken glass in the kitchen. Maybe Paul and Evan got into a physical fight. Evan could have no more than a bloody nose.” The sheriff studied Lance for a few seconds. “Why do you think Mrs. Knox is holding back information? She didn’t tell me about the fighting between Evan and Paul. She also forgot to mention her father is a recently released felon.”

“She didn’t think either one of those things was related to Evan’s disappearance.”

The sheriff’s head-tilt and eyebrow-lift said he didn’t believe Lance’s answer. “Or she is worried that her son is guilty, which would also explain why she called you before she called the police when she found Paul’s body.”

Lance had no comment. Most people would have called 911 first.

“She knew you’d bring a criminal defense attorney.”

“Tina had no way of knowing that when she called me,” Lance said.

“It was a good bet. You and Ms. Dane live and work together. You always support each other.” The sheriff gathered his papers, indicating their discussion was over. “Finding Evan would be a hell of a lot easier if Mrs. Knox didn’t make me drag every bit of information out of her.”

Lance left the conference room more frustrated than when he’d gone in. The sheriff was right on all counts. Evan was a natural suspect. He’d been at the house at the time of death, which gave him opportunity. Paul’s gun provided the means, and the argument with Paul was motive.

But Lance couldn’t believe Evan capable of murdering Paul. The boy was an impulsive hothead, not a cool, cunning killer. Anything Evan did would have been unplanned and sloppily executed.

Which actually described the sheriff’s theory of Paul’s murder perfectly.

Chapter Thirteen

Sharp’s feet hit the pavement in a sloppy rhythm. His stride felt sluggish. He’d waited until the sun went down to run. Why the hell did he feel like he’d been run over by a bus?

The heat wasn’t helping. Well into the evening, the temperature was still above eighty degrees, and humidity hovered somewhere around 1,000 percent. He felt like he was jogging through soup.

He passed the bank and turned right. His duplex sat in the business district of town. He loved the convenience and small-town ambience. Old houses lined the streets. Branches of mature trees arced overhead. Before he’d been injured back in March, he’d run a brisk five miles every day and hit the gym a few times a week for strength training.

But he’d been cleared for a short jog only a few weeks ago, and strength training was limited to his twice-weekly supervised sessions with his physical therapist. At first, the restrictions had irritated him, but now he was more concerned that he couldn’t exceed them if he wanted to.

His strides slowed at the next intersection. From the corner, he could see Olivia Cruz’s little white bungalow at the end of the block. Olivia had provided a few key pieces of information in their last case. In turn, Morgan had granted her an interview for the true crime novel Olivia was writing about one of Morgan’s previous clients, with the client’s permission of course.

But the flow of information hadn’t been even, and Sharp was in Olivia’s debt.

Since he’d been given the go-ahead to jog, he’d jogged down her street every day. Before that, he’d driven past at every opportunity . . . like a teenager with a crush. He was a former cop. She was a reporter. The word rumbled through his head with the same distaste as demon.

There was something seriously wrong with him.

He put his perverse attraction aside and turned his feet in the opposite direction. Not because he didn’t want to see Olivia—because he was an idiot and totally did—but because he didn’t want her to see him in his current state of physical inadequacy.

By the time he’d slowed to a walk a block away from his place, sweat soaked his T-shirt and the humidity clogged his lungs. Two miles had seemed like seven. He climbed the steps to his second-story apartment and went inside, grateful for the air-conditioning. He filled a glass with water. A quick rush of fatigue hit him. Even alone, he was embarrassed that he had to sit down, drink the water, and wait for the weakness to pass.

Needing energy, he whipped up a high-calorie, nutrient-dense protein shake. He took the drink with him to the bathroom. Stripping off his wet clothes, he stepped under the spray. The ropey pink scar that wrapped around his belly itched when the water ran over it.

The calories in the shake gave him some pep, but he still wanted to take a nap more than go back to work. However, he dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, then filled a travel mug with green tea before heading out the door. He’d promised Lance he’d check on Jenny tonight. He’d be damned if he’d let Lance down. He’d been enough of a deadweight for the last three months. Lance had completely carried the business for the first two months, and even then, Sharp had returned part time for the next four weeks. The injury had kicked his ass much harder than he’d anticipated.

It was nine o’clock before Sharp knocked on Jenny Kruger’s door, much later than he’d intended. He waited, the evening heat wrapping around him like a wet wool blanket.

Mental illness had kept Jenny in the same one-story house outside of town for more than twenty-five years, even though moving to town would have made life much easier for her son after her husband had disappeared when Lance was ten. Jenny’s symptoms had worsened over the years. Now she left her home only for group therapy sessions and appointments with her psychiatrist.

Sharp waved at the security camera. A moment later, Jenny opened the door. She nervously glanced up and down the country road before stepping back and admitting Sharp to the house. She was thin and fragile looking, with shoulder-length white hair and a stooped posture that reflected her insecurities. Mental illness had worn on her, adding years to her physical age, and she looked much older than sixty.

He gave her a quick hug, noticing how her shoulder blades seemed more prominent. Then he handed her the strawberry shortcake he’d bought at the farm stand on the way to her house. Normally, he didn’t approve of added sugar. But her illness and medications affected her appetite. She was a picky eater and needed calories any way she could get them.

When Lance’s father had gone missing, Sharp had been the SFPD detective investigating the case. It hadn’t taken long before he’d learned that Jenny wasn’t capable of caring for her son without help. Sharp had looked after the boy, making sure he got to hockey practice and giving him a place to stay when Lance needed a break from his mother’s illness or when Jenny was incapacitated. The timing had been fortuitous. Sharp had been at a bad place in his own personal life. They’d all needed each other. Now Jenny and Lance were the closest thing to family in Sharp’s life.