My phone rings again. I look down to find three lines blinking in discord, but my attention stays focused on my sister. “You know I’ll do everything I can to keep you safe.”

“How can you keep us safe when you don’t even know where he is?”

I hate it that I don’t have the answers she needs. A knock on the door draws my attention. “Sarah, I’m sorry.” I release her hand. “I have to get to work. We’ll talk more about this later.”

“I do not think this will wait.”

“Please, just give me some time.”

The door opens. Mona steps in. “Sorry, Chief, I just wanted to let you know the sheriff called.” She passes pink slips to me.

“Would you ask T.J. to escort Sarah home?” I ask Mona.

Sarah tosses me a sheepish look. “That is not necessary.”

“I’d feel better if he did. The roads are slick in spots.”

Mona offers Sarah a grin. “Come on, Sister Sarah. Let’s find T.J.”

Watching my sister walk away, I try not to be troubled, but I am. Who was in her barn and why? Is she right about Lapp? Has he targeted my family? Are they in danger? The questions taunt me with terrible possibilities.

. . . the time has come for you to tell your English police about Lapp.

Sarah’s words echo inside my head like a hammer strike against steel. I tell myself she doesn’t understand the implications of a confession on my part. That it would irrevocably harm my career. My reputation. My credibility. This case. Maybe even land me in jail. That’s not to mention the damage that would be done to my family. If Lapp is dead, it would all be for nothing.

There’s no way dredging up the past will help.

No way at all.

Ten minutes later I find Glock in his office, the phone stuck to his ear. He looks at me when I peek in and raises his finger, telling me to hold on. After a moment, he hangs up and shakes his head. “That was the BCI lab in London.”

“Any luck with the tread or footwear imprints?”

“They got a partial tread that doesn’t match any of the first responders.”

My heart rolls into a staccato. “Can they match it with a manufacturer?”

“Their tire guy is working on it.” He shrugs. “Fifty-fifty chance of IDing the tread.”

The news isn’t great, but I’ll take anything positive at this point. “I’m going to talk to Scott Brower.” Brower was at the Brass Rail the night Amanda Horner disappeared. He’s of particular interest because he’s got an arrest record, one of which involved a knife. “Wanna come?”

“Wouldn’t miss it. You buying breakfast?”

“As long as it’s fast.”

Ten minutes later we’re in my Explorer heading toward Mr. Lube, where Brower works as a mechanic. Next to me, Glock finishes his breakfast burrito and stuffs the napkin into the bag.

“Any luck with Donny Beck?” he asks.