“What if Olivia wasn’t sure if she wanted to reveal this evidence issue? What if she didn’t want a potential serial killer to be set free?”

“We need to talk to Todd Harvey.” Lance scrolled through the contacts on his phone. The current Randolph County chief deputy was acting as sheriff. “He was working for the sheriff when this investigation was underway.”

“The sheriff liked to keep his evidence to himself,” Morgan reminded him.

“There must be a file somewhere.” Lance dialed the chief deputy’s cell phone number and asked him about the file.

“I honestly don’t know,” Todd said. “You are welcome to come and look through the old files I boxed up from the sheriff’s office.”

“Thanks,” Lance said. “We’re on our way.”

They drove to the sheriff’s station. The chief deputy met them in the lobby and escorted them behind the counter.

“I put the murder book and other files in the conference room.” The chief deputy led the way into a small office. A row of cardboard boxes sat on a round table.

“There’s everything I could find relating to the case. Help yourself to coffee if you need it,” the deputy said on his way out of the room.

Lance and Morgan took seats and opened the first box, hoping they would find something that might generate a lead. They divided up the remaining boxes and dug in.

Two hours later, Morgan brewed a second cup of coffee. “Brandi Holmes went missing in September 2014. While he was investigating her disappearance, the sheriff discovered Tawny Miller, who disappeared in October 2012.”

“He looked further back and discovered four more women who had gone missing in the fall, approximately two years apart.” Lance leaned back and drank some water. One more cup of coffee would set his gut on fire. “Cassandra Martin, November 2010; Samantha Knowles, September 2008; Jessie Mendella, October 2006; and Brenda Chase, September 2004.”

Morgan carried her Styrofoam cup back to the conference table. “None of those other women have been found.”

“No, but each of those women had had their cars serviced at the auto shop where Cliff had worked for fifteen years. He didn’t personally work on every one of their cars, but he could have seen them in the shop. And he would have been able to access their names and addresses through the shop’s customer records.”

“But there were other employees who could have done the same,” Morgan pointed out.

Lance rose and stretched his aching back. “Yes, but Franklin was the only one working at the shop throughout that entire period. The owner was cleared as he was in Italy the week Brandi went missing.”

“None of the other women have been found.”

“But Brandi’s body turned up in November 2014. Her grave was shallow, and animals had been at the corpse. She was badly decomposed. But the sheriff’s department had already made the link between Franklin and the six missing women, and they had enough supporting evidence to establish probable cause and obtain a search warrant. They found the hairs in his trunk and that was the critical piece of evidence that convicted him.” Anger surged in Lance’s chest. The biggest piece of evidence in the case had been mishandled.

Morgan turned a page in the file. “The county would have the DNA profiles of those other five women on file.”

Lance added, “But none of their hairs were found in Franklin’s trunk. If Brandi’s hair was disallowed, is there enough additional evidence to bring a new trial?”

“I doubt it.” Morgan closed the file and rested her hand on it. “Probable cause isn’t even close to the standard applied by the court to establish beyond a reasonable doubt. If an appeal is granted, Franklin could walk.”

“And possibly kill again.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Jittery from the vat of coffee she’d consumed at the sheriff’s station, Morgan climbed out of the Jeep in front of Sharp Investigations. She stood on the sidewalk, hoisted her tote higher on her shoulder, and glanced at the front door. A package sat on the porch.

Lance locked the Jeep and caught up with her. “Sharp hasn’t called. I guess he’s still tied up with Stella.”

They turned up the walk. Their shadows fell over the box. Next to it, a tiny red light blinked. Morgan hesitated. Had that dot been a trick of the sunlight? It blinked again.

The hairs on the back of her neck prickled, and she reached for Lance’s forearm. “What’s that red light next to the package?”

Lance stopped. Under her hand, his muscles tensed. “It looks like an infrared light.”

And it was blinking faster.

The package emitted a faint beep and then a second.

“Get down!”

She barely heard the third beep. Before she could process what was happening, Lance hooked an arm around Morgan’s waist and tackled her to the lawn. She went down hard in a full sprawl. Her chin bounced off the grass. The impact jarred her head and knocked the wind from her lungs. Lance crawled on top of her and wrapped his arms around his head.

A boom sounded. Bits of debris showered them. A chunk of something hard nicked her calf. The slice of pain brought her brain back into focus.

A bomb.

Morgan gasped. Her heart slammed against her ribs. Her face was pressed into the grass, and Lance’s weight on her back prevented her from inflating her lungs. Lance had covered her body with his own and used his arms to protect their heads.

The air went quiet, and she tapped his arm. “Are you OK?”

“I think so.” His weight shifted slightly. “You?”

“I can’t breathe.”

He slid off until he was lying on the grass next to her, one arm still protectively over her back. “Are you all right?”

Rolling over, she drew in a deep breath. All of her limbs moved. No major pain. “Yes.” Morgan spotted blood dripping down his arm. “You’re bleeding.”

But he ignored it. He was scanning the front yard and the street. “I think that infrared beam was the detonator, but let’s find cover just in case there’s a second package.”

He rose into a crouch, tugged her to her feet, and pushed her back toward the Jeep. Without breaking stride, she grabbed her tote bag from the grass where it had fallen. One of her shoes had come off. She left it and ran awkwardly with Lance in one heel and one bare foot.

Once inside the vehicle, Lance started the engine and moved the Jeep down the street, his head swiveling as he looked for threats.

While he drove, Morgan called 911, then looked back at the duplex. A hole gaped in the front porch and scorch marks colored the siding next to the door. Most of the debris that littered the front walk and lawn appeared to have come from the porch railing and the bomb packaging. The front window that looked into Sharp’s office was broken.

She’d expected more damage, but the explosion seemed to have been limited to a six-foot radius centered around where the bomb had been placed.

She turned back to Lance and his bleeding arm. “Let me see.”

“It doesn’t hurt.”

“Yet.” She found the source of the bleeding immediately: an inch-long gash in his biceps. “This might need stitches.”

Lance didn’t seem concerned.