Unless someone had taken an actual sledgehammer to Charlie’s chest, the blow of the sheriff’s words could not have been worse. Miguel. The same man Lane helped at her café. The one who hit her. Anger and nausea churned in his gut.

“This isn’t going to be a normal situation, Charlie.” Sheriff Huggins’s radio cackled, but he turned it down. “I already told you Miguel has some issues, but I’ve never known him to be violent. Ever. Let’s do our job professionally but with an extra level of compassion—until we know the truth.”

“I understand, sir.” And he did. Charlie knew plenty of wounded warriors who battled the psychological damage of war long after they left the battlefield. It didn’t excuse them from their actions. Especially murder. “Do you think he’s our killer?”

The sheriff looked troubled. Like a man who knew what had to be done but was burdened by the decision. “Only one way to find out.”

The deputies spread out in a v shape. Their feet crunched over twigs and leaves as their flashlights lit the way down the path and through the outcropping of trees and bushes. It didn’t appear as though anyone lived out there, but soon a dilapidated home covered in leaves and pine needles came into view.

The porch creaked under Charlie’s boots. The loud boom of his knuckles against the rotting wood echoed. He kept his free hand on the gun at his hip. Miguel was a veteran, trained to kill, and when cornered . . . his reactions couldn’t be predicted. There was no room for mistakes.

“Miguel Roa, this is Deputy Lynch and Sheriff Huggins. We’d like to talk to you.” He listened for movement. Sheriff Huggins signaled some deputies to go around back. Charlie pulled open the screen door and paused. The front door was open. “Miguel Roa, this is Deputy Lynch.”

There was no response. With the toe of his boot, Charlie pushed the door wide open and raised his gun. The house stunk of turpentine and varnish. He flipped on a light, illuminating the house. Dishes and some trash were scattered around. Sheriff Huggins stepped in behind him with his gun raised. They cleared the house in a few minutes.

“We got another building here in the back,” Wilson said over the radio. “It’s clear. No sign of Miguel.”

As Charlie holstered his gun, his eyes were drawn to a pile of rags with brown blotches on them. Was it blood? “Does Miguel have a car?”

“I haven’t known Miguel to drive in forty years.”

“How does he get to town?”

“Walks.”

“Lynch.” A deputy was standing next to a couch and pointing at a cell phone with a hot-pink rhinestone case. “This what we’re looking for?”