Chet shook his head. “Maybe no one’s home.”

Behind the door, something slammed. The house rattled. Brody and Chet ran around the side of the house. A thin man in jeans and a black T-shirt raced across the small back lawn and vaulted over the three-foot fence, landing next to three grade-schoolers playing in a sandbox. He paused on the other side and glanced over his shoulder. Brody recognized Jordan Brown from his photo.

“Stop! Police!” Brody yelled.

The kid bolted, and Brody followed, tossing the car keys at Chet. Brody chased the kid through a neighbor’s side yard into the next street. Jordan ducked around a group of kids playing baseball and sprinted into another yard. He passed a shed and turned into a grass alley that ran between two fenced lots. Brody skidded through the sharp left, his dress shoes sliding on the muddy ground. He almost collided with Jordan. The kid had stopped short. A Dumpster blocked the exit. On both sides, six-foot-high wooden fencing blocked Jordan’s escape. He’d never get over an obstacle that high before Brody could get his hands on him.

Gotcha.

Jordan bulldozed Brody. The kid’s shoulder rammed Brody’s solar plexus. They went down to the ground. The kid rolled off Brody and bounded to his feet. He took one running step before Brody grabbed his ankle and sent him sprawling. But Jordan recovered with the speed of youth, getting his feet back under his body.

Where was Chet?

Brody kept his ears tuned for the sound of the unmarked police car as he lurched to his feet and grabbed Jordan by the collar. The kid spun around. His hand went into his pocket. Sunlight gleamed on a knife. Jordan lunged. Brody turned his body to dodge the blade. He grabbed the knife hand and twisted the kid’s wrist until the weapon dropped to the ground. Converting the wristlock into an arm bar, he forced Jordan facedown on the ground and pinned him to the weeds with one knee in his lower back. “You are under arrest.”

“Get the fuck off me.” Jordan squirmed.

“Hold still.” Brody leaned harder. Anger sent another shot of adrenaline into his bloodstream. Scarlet Falls used to be a nice, safe town. He didn’t appreciate scumbags like this one ruining it. Decent people were trying to live here.

His heart rammed against his breastbone, and a drop of sweat ran into his eyes. He wiped a forearm over his brow and pushed aside a vivid memory: another drug addict, another criminal—another near miss. A car door slammed, and Brody shut the mental door on his unwelcome vision with equal force.

Chet ran up the alley, gun drawn. Pale faced and wheezing, he pointed his weapon at Jordan. His gaze fell to the knife. “Shit. Guess I’m a little late.”

“It’s OK. I got him.” Brody reached for the cuffs on his belt.