Prickly adrenaline crawled along my skin.

The guy with a ponytail and a gun at Costco. Carlos Martinez. Santiago Martinez’s brother.

I TEXTED Moira that I had to work late, then drove to an address out near Crescent Lake. Finding a private gun seller had been easier than I expected. A plethora of websites allowed you to purchase a gun with no questions asked. Like Craigslist for gun sales. I’d told the man on the phone I wanted a weapon for protection, as I often worked late.

The rain had stopped by the time I pulled onto the gravel road. My car bumped through water-filled potholes. The road was lined with thick brush, the wind hustling through the naked branches.

I parked next to a neat chalet-style farmhouse with a brick chimney belching smoke into the gunmetal-gray sky. A man came out and stood on the front porch. He was older with a small potbelly, floppy white hair, and a casual but alert wide-armed stance. Even from here, I could see he was armed.

Breathe, I reminded myself. Smile. Be normal.

“You Dr. Sweeney?” he called as I got out of my car.

I nodded. I’d told him my real name because I wanted him to look me up and see that I was a reputable doctor, not some scuzzy drug dealer looking for an illegal murder weapon.

He hopped off the porch and shook my hand. “I’m Harry Donohue.”

“I’m Emma.”

“Nice to meet you, Emma.” He pulled a small gun from his back pocket. “This here is the Glock forty-two from the listing. You know much about weapons?”

“A little.”

“This girl is a hair over four inches tall and just under six inches long. It holds six rounds of three-eighty ammo and weighs less than eighteen ounces. It’s perfect for deep conceal, but you gotta get yourself that conceal permit like I said on the phone.”

I nodded and smiled. “My husband’s a detective. He already explained it to me. I’ll head over to the sheriff’s office and do that next.”

“You know how to shoot?”

“Yep.” Nate had insisted I learn to use a gun when we first moved in together. He’d said that because he was a cop, there would always be weapons wherever he lived, and he wouldn’t feel comfortable until I learned how to handle one. He’d given me lessons at the shooting range until he’d declared me “competent.”

“Good, good.” A gust of wind blew hair into Harry’s eyes and he pushed it back. “Now, normally I don’t sell unless you already have a permit, but since your husband’s a cop, I’m sure he’ll make sure you get it.”

I gritted my teeth at his patronizing tone.

Harry handed me the gun, an ankle holster, and a small box of ammunition. I handed him an envelope with cash, and he counted it quickly.