I search through social media tags, scrolling until an image jolts me. A guy with a Texas A&M hat with the number 27 on the side. Chris. His mouth opened wide, yelling at the anti-racist protesters, Blue Lives Matter flag in his hand. Right next to him, much clearer now, is Scott with his varsity jacket on, TRACK & FIELD on his shoulder.

I get up to show Dean.

Through the window of Evans Antiques, I see a guy get out of his SUV. He’s dressed in a crisp blue shirt, gray slacks, and shoes too shiny for Texas. I strain to see his face, but his hat and sunglasses are a good cover from this distance. He strikes me as familiar, maybe from around town. He doesn’t head into the Evanses’ store. Instead, he makes his way down the alley.

“I think that’s the guy who had binoculars watching Steve,” I call out to Dean.

“You sure?” Dean comes over and puts a hand on my shoulder, looking over me to see the guy, but he’s too late.

“What else is down the alley?” I ask.

“Garbage. It’s a dead end.” Dean pauses, then looks at me. “And the stairs to Steve’s office.”

I’m certain it’s no coincidence that he’s here as soon as Steve’s gone.

I pull out my cell and call Steve. “Did you lock the office?”

“Why, you need to get in?” Steve asks.

“No. The guy in the white SUV went down the alley behind Mr. Evans’s store. All that’s there—”

“Call the cops and stay away,” Steve says. “I had his plates run. He’s not someone we want near our case files.”

I hang up the phone and dial 911 while repeating to Dean what Steve said. His brows furrow and his jaw clenches, and then he swiftly moves past me as I talk to the 911 operator.

“Dad!” Dean yells, then hops over to the counter, enters a passcode on the gun safe, and pulls out a shotgun. He grabs a handful of shells and grips them, two by two, locking the gun back in place.

“What are you doing?” I block Dean from moving, my hands trembling.

“Stay here.” Dean points his finger at me in such a demanding way I almost slink back.

“Dean. No.” I’m hyperventilating, wanting Dean to stop and wait for the cops.

He doesn’t stop; he jogs out the front door carrying the shotgun. I quickly give the store address to the operator and chase after Dean. When I step outside, an alarm goes off upstairs. I breathe out a sigh of relief that this’ll scare him off. But it doesn’t stop him.

“Dean, it’s not worth it,” I yell after him, and run out to the alley.