“Who’s that man?” Tara asked as she pointed to him on the screen. The shop owner remained silent but Tara could tell in his eyes that he recognized him, yet the shock of what she and Warren seemed to assume left him speechless.

“That’s Greg Davis,” he finally said, his eyebrows knit in confusion. “He comes in here often.”

“What exactly does he come in here for?” Tara asked.

The shop owner still stared at the screen, trying to make senses of what he was seeing. “He’s a hunter, so he comes in to get supplies sometimes,” he replied.

A hunter, Tara thought. He was sounding increasingly more like a suspect. “Has he ever purchased a crossbow from you?”

“We don’t sell stuff like that here.”

“What kind of stuff does he usually buy?”

The shop owner finally looked up from the screen. “Usually he’ll just buy things like flashlights, rain gear, pocketknives, stuff like that.” He paused as he saw the suspicion in Tara’s eyes. “Look…I know this all doesn’t look good, but I know Greg pretty well. I really don’t think he could’ve done something like this.”

“We’re not saying he did anything,” Tara replied. “We just want to speak with him. Do know where he lives?”

He nodded skeptically, but reached for a piece of paper next to the computer and scribbled down an address.

“Thanks,” Tara said as he handed it to her.

She turned toward Warren. The corners of his mouth were slightly raised, as if he were holding back a smile, and then he nodded. Tara wondered if maybe he was growing to enjoy their partnership. But the moment quickly faded as his face became suddenly stern. They now had a possible suspect, and Tara knew he didn’t want to waste any time.

Chapter Eight

The home came into view and Tara couldn’t help but admire it. It was a large cottage, sitting on about a few acres of land with the thick forest in the distance. Perfectly arranged flowers were in a bed beneath each window. The house was well taken care of, and there was such a tranquility about it that Tara found it oddly ironic.

Warren pulled the car into the driveway and they quickly followed the cobblestone pathway to the porch. Tara knocked, and seconds later a woman appeared at the door. She was dressed in plain clothing and letting off the scent of Pine-Sol, as if she were in the midst of cleaning. But oddly, her face was caked in thick makeup.

She looked them up and down, startled by their presence.

“Can I help you?” she asked while carefully tugging at her long sleeves, even though it was a warm day.

Tara narrowed her eyes. “Is Greg Davis around?”

At Tara’s question, a look of fear washed over her and she reached for her short blonde bob, untucking her hair from behind her ear. It was like watching a curtain fall in someone’s window, shielding a view they wouldn’t want outsiders to see. But Tara could already see what she was trying to conceal—a fresh bruise—because no makeup or hair could hide the slight distortion of her face caused by a swollen cheek.