UPDATE: SPD Police Chief Packard has updated the earlier police report regarding the search for Glen Vincent Hamilton.

“Hamilton should be considered armed and dangerous. He is wanted for the attack on two Liberty Lake police officers this morning, and the hit-and-run of an elementary school student. He was last seen driving a dark gray Toyota Camry, Washington State license plate ART 1909. If you see him, do not approach. Call 9-1-1. Hamilton, 31, is a former resident of Liberty Lake and currently resides in Tacoma, Washington. Spokane Police Department is working closely with the Sheriff’s department and the FBI to locate Hamilton.”

Our news desk will keep you informed as soon as more information is available.

No. No, no, no, NO!

How did they have his name? He’d been so careful! He hadn’t rented in Liberty Lake on the off chance someone might recognize him—even though he’d left when he was fifteen. He didn’t use his own name to rent the house or the car. He hadn’t talked to anyone beyond small chitchat since he arrived, he hadn’t gone to the same store twice. He was so diligent! How could they know his name?

This was very bad.

He hadn’t meant to go so far. All he wanted was to look inside the house. The idiot didn’t want to let him in. Why? Why? It was his house. All he wanted to do was see it. Remember his mom. Remember when she had been there, when she had baked for him and helped him with his homework and read him bedtime stories.

Then he saw red. Peter Richmond was exactly like his father. Depriving him of his family home. Denying him his due. What he wanted. What he deserved. All he wanted to do was to look around—and everything had changed. They hadn’t just added on the second story, they’d changed the entire house! Took out a wall, made the kitchen bigger, destroyed his mother’s roses. Just pulled them out like they meant nothing.

The guy deserved to die. Just like the cop.

Glen took a deep breath. Now he had a hole in his arm. He didn’t know how bad it was and went to the bathroom, took off his shirt and winced as the material pulled at the clotting wound.

It was really more of a graze. The bullet wasn’t in there—it looked like a chunk of his flesh had been torn off. He had a first aid kit in the medicine cabinet. Taking the time to clean and bandage his wound calmed him down. It hurt like hell, but it really wasn’t that bad.

You were lucky. Real lucky.

Lucky. And smart. He’d gotten out of the house fast. Stabbed the cops and fled, rather than waiting around.

He inspected his bandage. Okay, a small bit of blood seeped through, but not much, and that was good. Now he could think. He had to find a way out of this mess. He always had alternate plans, but which plan did he need now?