“There’s always the chance the kid might have turned his life around at some point. Found Jesus, or something,” he said, as they rolled out of the lot and onto the highway.

“Fat chance,” Melba said. “Look at the facts, Eli. He killed that poor girl—Tiffany—you know he did. Forensics will prove it. And if he took her life, who can say he hasn’t murdered other people? Or would have, if he’d survived.”

Eli absorbed all that, weighing it in his mind—and in his gut, which seemed to have a mind of its own. “Why do you suppose he did himself in like that? He wasn’t the poster child for mental health, but this seems out of character. He had a lot of years ahead of him.”

“Sure,” Melba confirmed dryly. “Years he would have spent in prison for murder.”

“He was a narcissist, Melba, if not a straight-up psychopath. He probably thought he’d get away with killing that girl.” He paused. “If he did kill her. At least until the forensics people wrap up their investigation, everything we have is circumstantial.”

“He did it,” Melba said, with certainty. She was probably right; her instincts were good. Better than good. “But I get what you’re saying—keep my theories to myself, at least where the public is concerned, until we have something solid.”

“Yeah.”

“Mind if I brainstorm with Dan?” she asked, gazing straight ahead, at the road.

“Go ahead,” Eli said. “I plan on doing that myself, at some point.”

“He’s still trying to trace Tiffany Ulbridge’s steps back to Lubbock, or where she was before she came here.”

“Good,” Eli said.

They rode in silence for a while, each thinking their own thoughts.

After a few minutes, they passed the Painted Pony Creek Motel, looking as forlorn as ever in the rapidly fading light of day, and a couple of minutes after that, they were pulling into the Lansings’ driveway.

The stripped Christmas tree had been removed from the front walk and probably burned out back.

Fred’s car was parked outside the attached garage, and the two pit bulls were prowling the fenced area alongside the house. If food or water had been provided, the bowls were out of sight.

“Here we go,” Melba murmured, unsnapping the holster on her service belt. Although she wouldn’t have admitted it under the most dire of circumstances, she was afraid of dogs. Big ones, little ones, on or off their leashes.

“Stick with pepper spray, Deputy,” Eli said easily. “Leave your service revolver where it is until further notice.”

Melba stiffened slightly, but she didn’t say anything.

Maybe she was planning her campaign for sheriff of Wild Horse County. First order of business: assign her current boss to crosswalk duty.

Eli shoved open the driver’s side door, after drawing and releasing a deep, silent breath, and climbed out of the rig.