He cut her off. “Call it gut instinct, Doc. They don’t feel right. Hang on.”

This time she was ready, and braced as the car jounced through another weathered portion of muddy road. She could see the way he was tensing now, the closer they got to the old house on the hill top. They passed a cleared section of woods, and she spotted an old stone well.

Sawyer seemed on edge. He was poised in a way he hadn’t been on the previous leads.

“This might be nothing,” she cautioned quietly.

“Feels right,” he murmured back.

She wasn’t sure what to make of this. Instinct alone was a poor law enforcer, as far as she saw it. Instincts had to be trained. Senses and feelings were useful insofar as they partnered with data, facts, and, especially, training.

“There are a lot of red trucks in a wider surrounding area,” she replied quietly.

He glanced back. “Mhmm.” Still, he seemed on edge, fingers around the wheel. His eyes were on the old house fully as they pulled off the muddy, worn road and slid up the trail, coming to a halt behind an old, weathered red truck.

Tom Sawyer got out of the front seat and moved around the side as Ilse exited also. Without a word, he held up a hand and frowned.

Ilse paused, staring at him.

“Stay in the car,” he said, frowning even more deeply now.

She hesitated, one hand braced against the roof of the vehicle. “I—what if I can help?” she said, hesitantly. Her exhaustion from earlier was still swirling, and—perhaps—clouding her judgment. But Samantha was missing. She needed to help find her. In any way she could. Besides, sleep-deprived courage was as good as the real thing.

“You’re a civilian,” he said, firmly. “Stay in the car.”

She glared. Then, pulling his own trick, she didn’t say a word, and instead slammed the car door, crossing her arms and glaring.

He studied her for a moment, but then massaged the bridge of his nose and shrugged. “Fine,” he muttered. He reached out, despite himself it seemed, to help her over a pool of mud.

His arm felt corded and firm beneath his flannel shirt, and his hand guided her, against her elbow, surprisingly gentle as he helped maneuver past the mud and dirt. Once they reached the patio, though, he let go immediately and gave her a firm look.

“Let me do the talking,” he said. “And if I say get, you get.”

“I’d like to help.”

“No woman’s car here,” he said, shrugging once and glancing toward the drive. “Just the truck. Suspect’s here alone.”

“Suspect? He’s not a suspect yet—is he?” She decided not to object to his comment about the truck either.

“Help by not slowing me down, Doc.”

She inhaled slowly, glancing from the red barn, to the red truck, to the old house. Ilse shivered and stepped back, gesturing toward the patio steps and the worn blue rail.