In the HQ conference room, Sam labored over the murder board. Starting to the left with grainy images retrieved from the hotel security to photos of Julian Sinclair dead in Lincoln Park to autopsy photos, Sam laid it out in chronological order. Each piece to the puzzle would eventually add up to the whole. So many threads to this one—the secret sexual orientation, the family rift, the extreme views on hot-button issues—his and his sister-in-law’s—and the connection to the O’Connors.

Sam thought about the man she’d dined with two nights prior and was surprised by a wave of sadness over his loss. He’d come to town, to her town, expecting to be confirmed as a Supreme Court justice and would leave in a body bag. As someone charged with ensuring the safety of visitors and residents alike, the loss of his life offended her on a deep, personal level.

“I’ll get him, Julian,” she promised the deceased face in the photo. “I promise you, I’ll get him.”

The conference room door flew open.

“Shots fired at Reese’s house,” Jeannie McBride said, her eyes wide with dismay.

Sam’s heart contracted. “Cruz?”

“Not answering his radio, and his cell just rings.”

Sam ran from the room, grabbed her coat and headed for the door. “Tyrone, McBride.” Sam’s throat contracted, robbing her of air and speech.

The two detectives scurried after her and sprinted with her to the parking lot.

“He’s fine,” McBride said. “He’s got Reese, and he’ll be calling it in any minute.”

“Make sure rescue is on the way,” Sam ordered, feeling considerably less optimistic.

“His mother called dispatch,” Tyrone said. “She had reached his cell and heard gunfire. She’s freaking out.”

“And there’s no word from Cruz?” Sam asked.

His face grim, Tyrone shook his head as the radio crackled with reports of a possible officer down.

Sam couldn’t seem to get oxygen to her lungs. Flying across the city with sirens and flashing lights, she tried to take a deep breath but couldn’t get air past the huge knot of fear in her throat. She sent him there as punishment and now…Please don’t let him be dead.

“Lieutenant,” Jeannie said.

Startled out of her thoughts, Sam glanced over at her.

“Patrol is on the scene. They want to know if they should go in ahead of us.”

Sam’s mind raced. If the shooter was still in the house, she’d be risking additional people by sending them in. But if Freddie was in there and wounded, time could be critical. “Do they have vests?”

Jeannie conveyed the question. “They do.”

“With vests, two in the back, two in the front. Go in together.”

Jeannie relayed Sam’s order.

They waited in tense silence as they wove through traffic on their way to the scene.