“We don’t know, but we’re going to find out. You’re not the only one who wants to know, believe me. Farnsworth and Conklin were both here,” Freddie said of the chief and deputy chief, both of whom were old friends of her father’s. “Farnsworth had fire in his eyes when Malone showed him this stuff.”

“Let’s bag it all and have the lab work it up. Not that the gun will tell us anything about my dad.” How she wished they could get at that bullet lodged inside him.

“Malone said the same thing. I was just waiting for you to see it.”

With a nod she stepped out of the room so he could tend to the evidence. Drawing a deep breath in through her nose, she blew it out her mouth, a process she had discovered helped to short-circuit the stomach pains before they could spiral out of control. She made the mistake of glancing into what had been the baby’s room and quickly looked away from the gruesome scene.

“I don’t want my dad to know we found this stuff until we have more,” she said.

“I’ll put out the word.”

“I’d hate to get his hopes up.”

“I understand, and so will everyone else.”

“If we can’t find a connection from Reese’s arrest record, we’ll have no choice but to ask my dad.”

“We can cross that bridge if we come to it, but you’re right—there’s no need to tell him until we have something solid. Hopefully, we’ll find Reese fast and get him into interrogation.”

“What was the wife’s name?” she asked.

“Tiffany. Kids were Jorge, Ramon and the baby was Maria.”

Sam studied the family photo, zeroing in on the plain-looking mother. “She doesn’t look like a Tiffany.”

“No.” Freddie zipped the plastic evidence bag closed and pulled off his gloves. “Let’s get out of here. If there’s anything else, crime scene will let us know.”

She took another long look at the photo of the shattered family before she followed Freddie out of the house.

Chapter 4

Hours later, Sam stood in front of the mirror in her bedroom at her father’s house and adjusted the cowl neck of the plum-colored cashmere sweater he’d given her for Christmas. Of course Celia had picked it out, but that didn’t matter. It’s the thought that counts, and her father had always been a thoughtful gift-giver. A tough, don’t-fuck-with-me cop with a soft spot a mile wide for his family, Skip had loved to shop, to find the perfect gift, to hide it away, and then present it with a flourish for a birthday or Christmas or just because it was Tuesday.