“I left that part out of my story, but I did tell him I drove by the farm last night and saw someone watching the house. I told him he and Jake should be extra careful. Then I called Jake and told him the same. They needed to know.”

“I hope they heed the warning.” Morgan finished putting her hair up. Leaning close to the mirror over the dresser, she swiped mascara onto her lashes.

Lance’s phone chimed with a reminder. “Grant will be here this morning to finish the demolition.”

The dogs exploded in a frenzy of barking and raced for the front of the house, cutting off Morgan’s response.

“That’s probably him.” Lance left the room.

Morgan put away her mascara and followed him. Instead of their contractor, her sister, Stella, walked in the front door. Stella and her boyfriend, Mac, lived close by. On her way to work as a Scarlet Falls police detective, Stella wore navy-blue slacks and a matching blazer. Her gun and badge were clipped to her belt, and her long dark hair was coiled into a utilitarian bun. She dropped to one knee to greet the dogs. Scratching behind Rocket’s ear, she looked up at Morgan. “I have some information on the Evan Meade case. It’s not good.”

“Nothing about this case is good.” Lance crossed his arms.

Stella rose to her feet and picked a few dog hairs off the knee of her slacks. “Even though Paul Knox had been retired for some time, the entire sheriff’s department is treating his murder like a cop killing. SFPD might not be working the murder, but we’re hearing plenty of chatter. Colgate’s pride took a hard hit last spring when you solved the case and proved he was completely wrong. He’s determined to prove he’s right this time. He and all his men are gunning for Evan. I wanted to warn you.”

“We’re already getting resistance from Sheriff Colgate,” Morgan admitted.

“Speaking of the sheriff.” Lance checked his watch. “The press conference should be starting any minute.” He went into the family room, turned on the TV, and selected a local channel. Stella and Morgan followed him, and they stood in front of the coffee table, staring at the TV.

Sheriff Colgate stood in front of the station, several of his deputies and ADA Esposito were at his side. To Morgan, the presence of the ADA was alarming.

The sheriff spoke into a cluster of microphones. “We are pursuing several leads in the investigation of Paul Knox’s murder. At this time, an arrest warrant has been issued for the victim’s stepson, Evan Meade.”

Evan’s picture flashed in the lower corner of the screen, and Morgan’s heart clenched.

The sheriff continued. “Evan was last seen in a black T-shirt, jeans, and black Converse sneakers. He is six feet, three inches tall and weighs approximately one hundred ninety pounds. Anyone who sees Evan should call the sheriff’s department immediately at the number on the bottom of the screen. Please be advised that Evan could be armed and is potentially dangerous.”

Chapter Seventeen

Evan shivered so hard he could barely keep his grip on the paddle. The morning was already hot and humid, and he was covered in a layer of sweat. There was only one reason he could be so cold—he had a fever. His arm throbbed with its own heartbeat, and his entire body ached from his eyelids to his big toes.

His wound was infected.

He’d escaped drowning, barely, only to be taken out by the bacteria swimming in the river he’d been dumped into.

Tears filled his eyes. Where was his mom? Were the police watching her?

Luckily, he and the boat had been swept downstream together. He’d crawled out of the water and recovered the boat and paddle. Traveling on land would be much harder than paddling. But he needed medical supplies.

He positioned the small boat behind a tree. Scanning the riverbank, he spotted a house. This was the fourth home he’d seen. The first three had clearly been occupied. Could this one be empty?

The house was brown wood. A deck overlooked the river. Patio furniture was covered and stored beneath it. Dead leaves and debris were piled against the sliding glass door. Branches and other storm debris were scattered on the back lawn. No boats were tied to the short dock that extended over the water. Instead, in a stand of pines just above the dock, a canoe and a kayak were tied to tree trunks.

Wind gusted, chilling his bare back and chest, sending him into a shiver he couldn’t stop. He looked up at the house again. He had to try.

He had no idea how far he’d gone.

Or how much blood he’d lost.

He had to hide the canoe. He would need it again. He tried to climb out, but his leg muscles had stiffened during the hours he’d spent on the river. He tripped and went down on his knees in the mud. The canoe slipped away.

No!

The last thing he wanted to do was go into the river again. With the humidity, the rain, and being tossed overboard, he’d been wet almost since he’d run. But he might need the boat, and he couldn’t afford to have it discovered. The Camp Deer Lake emblem was too visible.

He splashed into the muddy river, the cold water rising to his waist. The shock rippled through him. His teeth chattered. Holding his arms high, he fought the current until he could grab hold of the boat. He towed it back to shore and used his last bit of strength to haul it, one-handed, up onto the bank.

Flopping on his back on the wet grass, he stared up, his energy depleted. Clouds shifted with the wind, exposing occasional bits of blue sky. He wanted to curl up and die. If it weren’t for his mom, that’s exactly what he would have done.

But he couldn’t do that to her.

He rolled onto his one good hand and both knees. He reached into the canoe and retrieved the gun from the bottom. He stuck it into the waistband of his jeans. Then he stumbled toward the house in a crooked line. His wet jeans were stiff and plastered to his skin. His canvas sneakers felt like they’d soaked up ten pounds of water.

At the back of the house, he peered through a window into a big room. There were a few pieces of furniture and lots of empty space. A vacation house?

Hope gave him a little strength, but it didn’t make him stupid. He walked the rear perimeter, looking for wires or cameras, but saw nothing that suggested the owner had installed a security system. Evan tried the back door. Locked. He went from window to window, testing each one. The sixth, on the side of the house, gave instantly. The latch seemed broken.

As much as he wanted to climb through, first he went back to the canoe. He dragged it up the bank and into the trees. The farther he got from the shore, the easier the boat became to pull. Closer to the house, dried pine needles covered the ground and the boat stopped leaving a track. When he’d reached the other boats tied to the trees, he turned his canoe so the Camp Deer Lake emblem faced away from the river. Then he tossed leaves and needles inside to make it appear as if it had been in the same place for a while.

Dragging the canoe had left a gully in the muddy riverbank, like a crocodile’s slide. Evan used two downed branches to cover the boat’s track. Satisfied that a casual glance wouldn’t detect his exit from the river, he trudged back to the house. He fell more than climbed over the sill, banging his injured arm. Pain paralyzed him. He sat on the floor, cradling his arm to his chest and panting until the agony became bearable again.

Hugging his arm tightly, he staggered to his feet. He was in the middle of the family room. A faded blue couch and matching recliner faced a small TV. He stood still for at least three minutes, just listening. But he heard nothing. The house was weirdly silent.

Evan closed the window and crept from room to room until he was sure the place was vacant. It seemed to be partially cleared out. A formal living room at the front of the house was empty. He positioned himself out of sight behind a window frame. He looked around the blinds out the front window onto the porch and lawn. A FOR SALE sign had been driven into the lawn. Dead leaves piled on the front porch. It didn’t look like anyone had opened the front door since before the big storm.

This was the best Evan could do, at least for now. He needed a couple of hours to get his shit together. He crossed his fingers that no one showed up.

He turned and walked to the back of the house. In the kitchen, he tried the faucet, relieved when water ran. He leaned over. Putting his mouth under the stream, he drank until the water felt cold and sloshy in his belly. Next to the kitchen was a laundry room and bath. He flipped the light switch. The room brightened. The electricity was on. He turned it off again. The house might not have any close neighbors, but it was visible from the river and road. No one could suspect he was inside.

Time to clean the wound. He needed a first aid kit.

Evan opened a cabinet under the sink, but all he found were cleaning supplies. He went through the kitchen cabinets and found dishes and canned goods. He opened the fridge. A single box of baking soda sat on a shelf. He opened the freezer. A bottle of Grey Goose vodka stared back at him. He grabbed it.

Upstairs, there were two bedrooms and a bathroom. One bedroom was completely empty. The other held a dresser and a bed. The dresser had some clothes in it. Evan grabbed a T-shirt, a flannel shirt, a pair of nylon sweatpants, and clean socks. The style looked like something an old man might wear, but they were clean. Goose bumps rose on his clammy skin.

In a narrow closet behind the bathroom door, he found a first aid kit, towels, and more cleaning supplies. Teeth chattering, he turned on the water in the shower and stepped out of his wet shoes and jeans. His shirt stuck to the wound. Tears welled in his eyes as he worked the fabric free.

He stuck his hand in the spray and almost cried when he felt the warm water. The only soap he could find was a dispenser of hand soap next to the sink. He took it into the shower with him. Under the spray, the water hit his arm like flames. Agony weakened his legs. Dizzy, he slid to the tile floor and rested his head on his knees until the light-headedness passed. Then Evan gritted his teeth and washed the wound. The edges were red, the surrounding skin hot and swollen.

It was definitely infected.

When he’d finished with the soap and water, he washed the rest of his body. Turning off the water, he reached outside the shower for the bottle of vodka he’d brought up with him.