From the background came the creak of a car door opening, then slamming shut. D.D. was out of her chair, grabbing her jacket. She’d need to prep a quick warrant, find a succinct way of defining such avant-garde search perimeters, then decide which judge to call this time of night….

“So,” Wayne’s voice returned. “I’ll grab Ethan. You grab the warrant. We’ll meet you there.”

“I’ll grab Ethan,” she corrected him, exiting her office. “Miller will get the warrant. You can’t be there.”

“But—”

“You can’t be alone with a witness, or at a scene with the suspect’s computer. Conflict of interest, tampering with evidence, witness coercion. Need I go on?”

“Goddammit,” Wayne exploded. “I did not hurt Sandra! I’m the one who called you, remember? Furthermore, this is my nephew we’re talking about. The kid’s scared out of his mind!”

“Tell me you never slept with Sandra Jones,” D.D. replied evenly.

“Come on, I’m in my car already. At the very least let me be at Ethan’s side. He’s only thirteen, for Christ’s sake. He’s just a kid.”

“Can’t.”

“Won’t.”

“Can’t.”

“Tough. My sister’s house is still fair game.”

“Don’t you dare!” D.D. started. Except she never got to finish. She heard the roar of the car engine firing to life as Wayne turned the key. Then she heard a curious little click.

He heard it, too.

“Dammit, no!” the forensic tech screamed.

Then his car exploded in the middle of the crime lab parking lot.

D.D. dropped her phone to the ground. She remained rooted in place, clutching her ringing ear and screaming for Wayne to get out, get out, though of course it was much too late.

Detectives were running. Someone told her to take a seat. Then the first of their pagers started to sound. Officer down, officer down.

Ethan, she thought.

They had to get to Ethan. Before Jason Jones did.

Aidan Brewster did not beg.

Maybe once, he would have. He would’ve fought to live, he would’ve argued he still had value, he was a young guy with plenty of potential. Hell, if he could just get beneath the hood of a car, his hands on the engine …

But he was tired. Tired of being afraid, tired of feeling hunted. But mostly tired of missing a girl he never should’ve fallen in love with in the first place.

So he stood in the middle of the family room. Right next to the floral love seat, his hand on Mrs. H.’s favorite crocheted doily.

As the gun appeared in front of him, took aim at his gut.

No more worries, Aidan figured.

He thought of Rachel. She was smiling in his mind. She was holding out her arms to him, and this time, when he took her hands, she didn’t cry.

The gun fired.