“He didn’t murder in Seattle—”

“Poetic license. They couldn’t even call him by his last name, like Bundy or Dahmer. Daday sounds like daddy. The news needed . . .” A movement caught my attention. I peered over his shoulder, then squinted. “I thought you said the house was empty.”

He turned and looked. “He lived alone. It should be . . .” He narrowed his eyes.

“Maybe someone is in there collecting souvenirs.” My neck prickled and I scratched it.

“This address was never released.” He reached for his cell. “But I can tell you’re bothered by something. It’s possible the forensic team is still collecting evidence.”

“Don’t bother trying to call.” I leaned forward, watching the house. “No service.” I rubbed my neck on the other side. “I don’t see the forensic van.”

His gaze tracked around the house. “I think I see it. Through the trees over there. We should probably let them do their work.” He reached for the starter button. “We’ll double check when we get service and let the county sort it out.” He pushed the starter. “Ready to go look at your horse—”

Something moved next to the house.

It took me a moment to understand what I was seeing. I grabbed Jim’s arm in a white-knuckled grip.

He whipped around.

A man was slowly moving toward us. One arm held a woman, mouth twisted in horror. His other arm held a pistol to her head.

Jim jerked. “We’re in the shade. I don’t think he’s seen you yet. Duck down.”

“Oh, sweet heaven!” I slid to the floor of the truck. “Who are they?”

“I think she’s a forensic technician for the county. Don’t know the guy. Is your pistol still in the glove box?”

“Yes.” My stomach hardened. I needed to tell him something, but my mind wouldn’t focus on what.

Without looking at me, he opened the glove box, handed me the gun, then slid the cell over. “I’m going to try to talk him down. See if you can get a clean shot.”

“But—”

“The phone will vibrate when you have service. Keep trying for backup.”

I reached for his hand but he’d raised his arms to show he held no weapon.

He was going to face that armed gunman and trust me to cover him? To save him? My vision blurred.

He lowered one hand and slowly opened the door from the outside.

Can I kill a man? Pull that trigger?

“Take it easy. I’m unarmed. My name is Jim—”

“Shut up!” the man yelled. “I know you. I seen you on TV. You’re that cop.”

“I’m—”

“He didn’t do nothin’.”

He didn’t do nothin’? I snatched up the pistol. Wrong. This is wrong.