A workbench lined one wall. Lance took a step closer to the body, onto the plastic sheeting that covered the concrete floor. Blood congealed in spots and small puddles.

Sharp was breathing hard. Lance could hear his lungs heaving from several feet away. The color drained from his face, leaving him the gray-white of the concrete under their feet.

“No. It can’t be.” His voice was half plea, half groan.

Lance approached the body. Several metal buckets were arranged around it. Two were filled with ice. Cold air wafted from them. The third metal bucket sat to one side. He glanced into it, and his belly flip-flopped.

Blood.

Lance said, “It looks too big to be Olivia.”

But it could be Joe Franklin.

Sharp made a noise that could have been agreement, or retching. Then he leaned over, rested his hands on his thighs, and wheezed. “Please.”

He needed to know.

Lance moved toward the body. Something about the shape was eerily wrong. He reached out and worked the white cloth from around the top of the body. Then he lifted its edge.

“It’s a hoof.” Lance quickly moved to the bottom of the body and unwrapped it.

A pig’s head stared back at him.

Relief nearly toppled him. Lance staggered backward. “Shit. A dead pig.”

“Pig?” Sharp raised his eyes and stared at the pig’s head for a full minute, the truth slowly sinking in. The color began to return to his face. He exhaled, the stress leaving his body with his breath.

Lance replaced the cloth around the pig’s head. He knew little about slaughtering animals but had seen hunters hang deer.

“You going to be all right?” He was tempted to take Sharp’s pulse.

Sharp nodded. “Fine. I just aged a few years in the past minute, that’s all.”

“Let’s get out of here.” Lance led the way out of the shed. A light from the back of the house blinded him. The sound of breathing lifted the hairs on his neck. He held up a hand to block the light and saw the shadow of an enormous creature.

Sharp whipped his flashlight around. “Holy shit. Is that a dog or a bear?” Sharp asked in a whisper.

“A dog, I think.” All the moisture in Lance’s mouth and throat instantly evaporated.

The animal was tan with a black muzzle. It had a thick body and square head and was roughly the size of a Volkswagen.

“Back away slowly,” Sharp whispered.

“I think we should cut and run.” Lance had been chased by a dog in the past. He’d barely escaped with all his body parts.

“Nope.” Sharp eased backward. “You’ll trigger his prey instinct.”

Yep. That’s exactly what Lance felt like. Prey.

Chapter Thirty-One

Lance stared at the dog, sweat dripping down his back.

“Hey!” a voice called out.

Lance looked for the voice. A man walked toward them, an ax balanced on one shoulder. He was a lean six three, and he moved like an athlete. If this was Joe Franklin, he did not look like a nerdy game developer.

He lifted a hand to his mouth. A shrill whistle split the air, and the dog abruptly pivoted and trotted back to its master. The man gave it a command, and the dog planted its ass on the ground next to him.

“That’s a good girl,” the man said in a high-pitched voice as he scratched the dog behind her ears.

The dog wagged the whole back half of her giant body.

The man let the ax fall into his hands. If the guy rushed him, could Lance draw his gun and shoot before the blade hit him?

“You must be Joe Franklin.” Lance lifted both hands in front of his ribs, palms facing out. The seemingly defensive position put his hand closer to the weapon at his hip.

“Don’t move!” the man ordered. “Didn’t you see the No Trespassing signs?”

“We must have missed them.” Lance pointed one finger toward the house. “We knocked on your door, then thought maybe you were in the barn.”

“I don’t give a fuck if you knocked on the door.” The man’s face flushed angry red. “How did you get around my gate?”

“We walked.” Lance could not see his face. “Are you Joe Franklin?”

“Get the hell off my property. Are you reporters? Because I hate reporters.” Joe started toward them. “Still calling me, still showing up at my house, years later. I can’t go anywhere without someone snapping my picture. Last month, I caught some news guy parked on the road. He was flying a drone over my house.”

Olivia was a reporter. Had she come here? Had she made him angry?

Lance faced Joe. “We’re not with the press.”

Joe’s gaze darted back and forth between Lance and Sharp. He stepped closer, his eyes fixed on Lance’s face. “Can you repeat that?”

Lance remembered Joe’s hearing impairment and raised his voice, trying to speak more clearly. “We’re not with the press.”

Joe lowered the ax to the ground. He turned to his dog. “Stay.” Then he walked toward Lance. “Then who are you?”

Lance pulled out a business card and held it out. The beam of the flashlight blinded him. “You’re Joe?”

“Yes.” Joe shined the light on the card, then back at Lance. “What do you want?”

“Just to ask you a few questions,” Lance said. “It’s about a missing woman.”

“I don’t know anything about a missing woman.” Joe backed up a step. “I hardly leave my farm.”

“Please. Her name is Olivia Cruz.” Sharp moved forward. “She’s a true crime writer, and she’s my girlfriend. Can we just have ten minutes of your time? She’s been missing for days,” he pleaded.

“All right.” Joe turned and strode away without another word. With a snap of his fingers, he summoned his dog. The big animal trotted obediently at his side.

Sharp fell into step beside Lance, and they followed the man and his dog to the house. Joe led the way inside, down a corridor, and into a large kitchen. Like the outside of the house, the kitchen had an old manor feel. The floor was brick-colored tile. Copper pots hung from a rack over a butcher-block island.

In the close quarters of the kitchen, the dog turned, shoved her huge muzzle in Lance’s crotch, and wagged.

“She’s friendly?” he asked, not liking her giant teeth so close to his important parts.

“Yes.” Joe sighed. “Please don’t tell anybody. She’s scared the crap out of more than one reporter, but she’s actually not much of a guard dog. She likes everybody.”

Lance rubbed her head, carefully moving the dog’s nose from his groin. Encouraged by the attention, she pressed closer, forcing Lance backward a step.

“Place,” Joe commanded, gesturing to a dog bed the size of a twin mattress in the corner. The dog walked to her bed and lay down. Joe walked around the island, opened a drawer, and took out two hearing aids. He put them in his ears and faced them over the island. “Now, what do you want?”

Sharp began, “Did Olivia Cruz contact you?”

“She did. Several times. By phone and by email.” Joe crossed his arms. “I emailed her back and told her I don’t grant interviews.”

“Could you hear us outside?” Lance leaned a hip on the counter.