Lance considered the information. As a previous offender with a history of violence and no respect for women, Roger McFarland was an excellent suspect. On the other hand, linking McFarland to Shannon’s murder might sever the connection with Noah’s case.

“Do you need anything else?” Bob asked, glancing at his watch. “The restaurant will be opening soon.”

“Just one more thing.” Morgan opened her tote and took out some photos in an envelope. She turned them to face Carol, dealing them out on the desk like a game of solitaire: Kieran, Isaac, Justin, Chase, Noah, and Adam. “Do you recognize any of these young men?”

Both Carol and Bob scanned the pictures and nodded without any hesitation.

Bob tapped Justin O’Brien’s picture. “Justin made a new logo for the inn. The old one was terribly outdated. We had new menus, business cards, and brochures printed last month.”

“Did Justin come to the inn?” Excitement gathered in Lance’s gut.

“Just once. We found him through an online freelancer site. We discussed our needs in a phone call and emails. But he did come to the inn to show us a dozen potential designs. He didn’t seem thrilled about the face-to-face meeting. I understand that most business today is conducted online, but I’m afraid I’m old-fashioned. I like to meet the people I’m going to do business with. And Justin was local, so there seemed to be no reason to make an exception.”

“What did you think of Justin?” Lance kept his voice level, but inside he was encouraged for the first time since they’d taken this case.

“He was awkward and a little shy, but then I suppose he spends most of his day on the computer.” Bob shook his head. “Young people today are losing their ability to talk to other people.”

“Do either of you remember if Shannon was working when he came to the inn?” Morgan asked.

“We don’t have to remember.” Bob took out his phone. “I’ll check my calendar.”

Carol turned to the desktop computer on the other side of the L-shaped desk. She moved the mouse. When the screen brightened, she typed in a password.

Bob looked up from his phone. “Justin was here at five p.m. on January 9.”

Carol tapped on the keyboard. “Shannon worked the registration desk that day from two to ten p.m.”

Justin had been at the inn at the same time as Shannon.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Sharp paced his office, frustrated. Lance and Morgan had called to bring him up to speed on the case. If Shannon Yates had been at Beats the night she’d gone missing, then how was her case related to Haley’s? Could Justin O’Brien be a serial rapist and killer? Even if he was and he killed Shannon, how did they tie the murder of Shannon Yates to Noah’s death? Raping and strangling a woman was a very different crime from stabbing a man.

Justin O’Brien had done work for the inn where Shannon Yates had been employed. McFarland’s landscaping sign had appeared at the same inn. Justin’s link strengthened a connection between the cases, but McFarland’s suggested the cases were unrelated.

What Sharp needed were more details on Shannon Yates’s case, but how could he get more information when all his sources at the sheriff’s department had quit or retired?

An idea wormed its way through his gut.

Who else had sources?

No.

He couldn’t.

He’d feel like a traitor, like he’d be dealing with the enemy. Would Luke go to the Empire for help? No frigging way.

He crossed the floor of his office and spun around, his mind scrambling for other options.

Damn it!

Moving behind his desk, he opened the center drawer and fished for the business card. Then he pulled out his phone and dialed the number. Luke had been tempted by the dark side, and Sharp was more of a Han Solo than a Luke Skywalker anyway. And Solo was a smuggler. So what the hell.

The line rang twice, then she answered. “Olivia Cruz.”

“Lincoln Sharp here.” He swallowed his pride in one big gulp. “The last time you came to my office, you talked about working together.”

“I did.” Her voice was as smooth and cool as glass. “And you have my attention.”

“I’m looking for information on the Shannon Yates case.”

“Isn’t everyone?”

“Look.” Exhaustion weighted Sharp’s shoulders. He dropped into his chair. Games irritated him. “I don’t have time for banter. Bad things are happening to good people. Do you know anything or not?”

The line went silent. Sharp heard her take a breath. When she spoke again, her voice was serious.

“Actually, not much. I’ve had my head down in my writing project.” She paused. “But I assume your question means there’s a link between the Shannon Yates case and the murder of Noah Carter.”

He knew she’d make the connection. Reporters were naturally nosey creatures. Ms. Cruz shouldn’t be able to resist the lure of a mystery.

Sharp dangled the bait. “Shannon was at Beats the night she went missing.”

“Oh.” Her one-syllable response was loaded with surprise and interest. In the seconds of silence that followed, Sharp could practically hear her synapses firing over the cellular connection.

But Sharp’s patience had worn razor thin. He was tired of waiting for a break. The case had put Lance and Morgan in danger. “I could probably get Shannon’s case details on my own, but I’m short on time. Someone tried to kill my partner.”

“I heard about the fire.” Her voice was grave. “Your investigation has clearly made someone nervous.”

“Only guilty people get nervous as an investigation proceeds.”

“I could make a call.”

“Would you?” Sharp asked.

“Give me an hour. Then you can meet me at this address.” She rattled off a number and street in Scarlet Falls, barely a mile from his place.

“Thank you.” Sharp ended the call feeling disconcerted. That had been too easy. Ms. Cruz had been far too agreeable for a reporter. He didn’t trust her. Not at all. Remember when Han trusted Lando? Look where that had gotten him—frozen in carbonite and shuttled off to Jabba the Hutt.

Sharp drove to the address Ms. Cruz had given him and parked his Prius behind hers. He checked the number on the front of the white bungalow. Was this her house? He took in the picket fence, porch swing, and tidy garden. Except for the solar panels on the roof, the little cottage was small-town traditional. With her fashionable coat and skinny-heeled shoes, Sharp had expected her to live in something swanky, not homey.

He walked to the front door and knocked.

Ms. Cruz answered the door.

Sharp drew back, surprised. Instead of a polished outfit and pointy heels, she wore very worn jeans and a loose sweatshirt. Her feet were bare, and her toes sported candy-pink nail polish. Again, not what he’d expected.

“Are you coming in?” She stepped back. Without her shoes, the top of her head was barely level with his chin.

“Um. Yes.” Sharp was uncomfortably short on words. He was uncomfortable period. Ms. Cruz wasn’t falling into line with his preconceived notions.

She locked the door and led the way down a narrow hall into a bright, recently remodeled kitchen. A fan of all things renewable and sustainable, Sharp approved of the dark bamboo floors and gray recycled-glass kitchen counters. The scent of something spicy filled the air. In the center of the island, a bottle of red wine stood open to breathe next to a laptop computer.

“I like your house.” He removed his jacket and hung it over the back of an island stool.

“So do I.” She moved behind the laptop. “My aunt left me this house when she died. It isn’t what I’d ever imagined I’d want, but I have good memories here, and I’ve made it my own. Now I can’t imagine living anywhere else. Would you like some wine?”

“No, thank you.” Though he did note that it was a very nice organic pinot noir. He did not want to let down his guard. Not around her. “I’m not much of a drinker.”

She poured herself a small glass. “Before we start, I have to ask. Why did you call me today?”

Sharp leaned a hip on the island. After a minute, he decided on honesty. He was, after all, asking for a favor. “I spent all day trying to get details on the Shannon Yates case. But the sheriff is keeping the investigation sealed tighter than a mason jar. I started thinking about leaks and other possible sources. That train of thought led to you.”