I opened the door a few inches. The dog whined and wagged his tail. He had white paws and a smear of white on his nose. “What’s your name, bud?” I asked.

I couldn’t let the animal inside the scene, so I stepped outside. Leaned over and checked his I.D.

Beau, a bone-shaped metal tag read, along with a phone number.

Standing up, I noticed a backhouse behind the place. The sun had fallen, and the evening was getting chilly. A light was on inside the small structure, and the door was left ajar. I wondered if patrol had cleared the casita.

“Abe,” I hollered, and moved toward it. The dog followed me, and I kept my Glock out.

“Mason Falls Police,” I announced. Wandering across a wide square of dirt and crabgrass.

“On your six,” Abe said, coming up behind me.

I pushed open the door with my dress shoe, scanning the place with my Glock. It was empty, but a TV had been left on, the volume muted. The place was small, but enough space for one person. That is, if you removed the fifty banker’s boxes that were piled in the middle of the room.

“There’s an episode of Hoarders waiting for their next location scout,” Abe said.

I stepped around the boxes, which were stacked in layers, three high. The room sported a pullout couch, an oak rolltop desk, and an upright wooden gun rack with five weapons behind a glass door.

On the local Fox channel, the news played.

Governor Toby Monroe yapped away, his face pained—a look that he’d probably practiced in front of a mirror. I saw a shot of Falls Magnet Middle School and tapped up the volume so I could hear what Monroe said.

“And although we mourn the loss of a great educator,” the governor said, “we are fortunate to have policemen like Detective P. T. Marsh. He saw this madman almost kill three young girls and did his job to keep them safe.”

I glanced at Abe. It wasn’t good public policy to call out a cop by name. Especially the day of.

“Did you hear that?” I squinted.

“Your buddy.” Abe shook his head. “Still has a man crush on you.”

Abe knew about some of my past interactions with Monroe over the last two years.

But he didn’t know about the incident in May, when I’d asked the governor to use his influence to help find the address of the man who killed my family. No one except Monroe and I knew about that.

The TV displayed a picture of me. A photo from five years ago. I stood outside the court building on 5th Street in slacks and a tweed jacket with patches on the elbows.

“You look good,” Abe said. “Young. Ripped.” He patted my stomach. “What happened?”

I flicked off the TV and walked over to the gun case. Through the glass we could see two Rugers, one AR-15, and two pistols.

“You got those keys still?” I asked.