“He was under investigation for drug trafficking at the time his girlfriend died.”

Sunday steepled his fingers. “My relationship with him dealt strictly with the manslaughter trial. I had no knowledge of his other dealings, legal or otherwise.”

“A man facing manslaughter charges would have been worried that his other business ventures could be exposed.”

“I assume so, but I never asked, and he never offered.”

“Why did you go see him the morning he died?”

“Who said I did?”

“Why did you go see Alana Stone in the hospital?”

“Just looking out for her.”

“Why? You don’t strike me as the caring type.”

“You don’t know me that well. I can be quite kind.”

“Where is Ms. Stone?”

Sunday shrugged. “I have no idea.”

“Walker is dead, but my investigation into his drug dealing is not. He was one link in a chain I’m going to climb.”

Sunday’s smile was relaxed as he tugged at the cuff of his shirt. “I commend your dedication, Ranger Spencer. Texas is lucky to have you.”

Word games had never been Spencer’s strong suit. And dancing around Sunday’s polite conversation was already feeling like a waste of his time. “He sold drugs to all walks of life. Some were influential people.” He let the silence settle. “I’m not after them, and right now I don’t care how you handle your clients. But I want Walker’s supplier.”

“As I’ve said, our discussions centered only on the manslaughter charge,” Sunday said. “By the way, how is Detective Jordan Poe doing?”

“You ever get within a hundred feet of her again, and you’ll be dealing with me.”

“That a threat?”

“I don’t make threats.”

“I broke no laws.”

Spencer pictured her lying in a pool of her own blood at the old house. “Stay away from her.”

“Like everyone, I look forward to seeing her back on the job again.”

“Stay away from her.”

A smile quirked the edges of Sunday’s lips. “Ask her about her personal connection to Walker. You might find it interesting.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Ask her.”

Spencer drove down to San Marcos and the Sanchez home. He parked in front of the modest house, and as he settled his hat on his head and strode toward the front door, he thought about the text Constance Sanchez had sent Jordan. We need to talk.

He rang the front bell, saw the flicker of curtains by the front door, and stepped back, hand near his weapon. The door opened to a woman in her midfifties with gray streaks in her dark hair and hesitation in her narrowing eyes.

“Ma’am, I’m Texas Ranger Carter Spencer,” he said. “I’m looking for Constance Sanchez.”

“I’m Constance.” She glanced behind her toward an unseen room, where a television played a cable news show. She stepped outside and closed the door behind her. “Why are you here, Ranger Spencer?”