New panic rose to choke him, because unlike George Garrett, the teenager was still breathing. He ran his palms over his head, digging his fingers into his skull. The sharp pain short-circuited the panic and he could think again.

He dropped into the chair and pulled his tablet close. It was time to be smart. Yesterday he’d run crazy, worried that the fisherman had seen him. He’d taken care of the threat, but had made some mistakes. Now he was going to go slowly. He’d determine whether the kid was a threat.

If so, he’d eliminate him, just like he’d eliminated George Garrett, though he’d do it a lot more carefully. Then he’d leave. Change his face. Do something.

He’d definitely quit doing the cops’ job for them. He’d leave the kiddie rapists and traffickers and wife killers and thieves to prey on anybody they pleased.

Not my circus, not my monkeys. It was time he took care of himself. The question was, how exactly would he determine if Michael Rowland had been the one to give the cops his description?

If Michael had seen him, perhaps he’d told someone. Someone other than the cops. A friend, maybe. Or a teacher.

Where did that news report say he went to school?

Cade found the news report and watched it again. Albert Sabin High School. He located it on the map, then realized it was Sunday. They’d be closed today.

Besides, he couldn’t just waltz in and ask for Michael Rowland. First, he’d be recognized in five seconds, because his face was on the fucking news. Second, he doubted Michael would be at school tomorrow.

Nor would he find the teenager in Brewer’s house. Both children had been removed from the home into emergency foster care. He needed to locate the foster home into which they’d been placed.

He considered the boys’ mother. Her expensive clothes couldn’t hide that she was an addict. He highly doubted she’d been told where her sons were. Hell, she thought her teenager had killed that prick Brewer.

He stilled. Wait. Why? Why would she think that? Was there evidence that pointed to the kid?

Would it be possible to frame the kid for the murders?

Then he remembered George Garrett. “Shit.” Garrett’s security cameras had caught him, and even though Cade’s face had been covered, Michael Rowland was barely five-foot-eight and so damn skinny. There was no way the kid could be mistaken for Garrett’s killer.

George Garrett is gonna come back to bite me in the ass, he thought grimly.