Without letting himself think about it, he exhaled and dumped the liquid over his wound. It felt like someone had poured gasoline on his arm and set it on fire. Tears poured from his eyes, and he threw up all the water he’d drunk. Too weak to stand, he opened the shower door, grabbed the towel, and wrapped it around himself.

He didn’t know how long he lay there, shivering and retching. Maybe he even passed out. But eventually, he was able to crawl out of the shower. Sitting on the bathroom floor, he slathered antibiotic ointment on both the entry and exit wound and covered them with gauze pads. Then he wrapped an ACE bandage around his arm to hold them in place.

Now he needed to get off the floor.

The house was for sale. Someone could show up at any moment. He needed to be ready to run.

Slowly, moving his arm as little as possible, he dressed in the sweatpants and T-shirt. Pulling the socks on one-handed took time.

He needed to thoroughly search the house for useful items. He didn’t like stealing, but he was desperate. On shaky legs, he went through the medicine cabinet. He’d been right about the house probably belonging to an old dude. If the old guy had died, it would explain why half his shit was gone.

The shelves were filled with prescription bottles and over-the-counter meds. His mom talked about medical stuff all the time. He should have listened more. He didn’t recognize any of the medications.

He wanted to call his mom. He needed to go to a hospital, but he couldn’t risk it. The police would find out, and Paul’s killer was a cop. He’d end up getting himself and his mom killed.

Fuck it. He grabbed the whole bottle of ibuprofen.

He found a nylon bag in the linen closet and filled it with supplies: the first aid kit, the meds, soap, and some small towels. Then he went back into the bedroom and took another set of clothes and a pair of slip-on old-man sneakers. They were a little tight, but his Converses were still wet. And they reeked. He zipped the bag closed and went downstairs.

In the kitchen pantry, he opened a can of chicken and ate it with a fork, swallowing four ibuprofen tablets as well. He found a second bag and filled it with a few cans of peaches and chicken, a box of crackers, and a can opener. Unfortunately, his ability to carry food and water was limited by its weight and his injured arm, but he found a few bottles of water in the garage and tossed them in the bag. What else could he use? He thought of his camping trip with Paul and the supplies they’d packed.

Paul.

Grief tightened Evan’s chest. He shoved it down deep. When all of this was over, he could miss Paul and be sad. Now he had to figure out what he was going to do.

The house was warm and dry. Could he stay here for a while?

Did he have anywhere better to go?

The answer to that question was a big fat no.

He went back into the family room, set the two bags of stolen supplies under the window with the broken latch, and closed the blinds. He spotted a can of long matches on the mantel over the fireplace. On their one and only camping trip, Paul had taught him that fire could mean the difference between life and death. It could provide warmth and the ability to boil water to kill bacteria and parasites. Evan put the matches in his bag.

A fleece blanket was draped over the back of the couch. Evan sat and pulled the blanket around his shoulders. The ibuprofen was helping a little, but he still felt like shit.

He might not pay attention to everything his mother said, but he knew that an infection in a wound this deep was dangerous. If it spread, he could lose his arm or even die. Maybe he should consider calling her or the police.

If only he knew what was happening. His gaze lingered on the TV. He turned it on, surprised that whoever owned the house hadn’t canceled the cable. He turned on a local news channel. A breaking news banner scrolled across the bottom of the screen: SIXTEEN-YEAR-OLD EVAN MEADE WANTED IN THE SHOOTING DEATH OF STEPFATHER.

Shock flashed through him like ice. As if a cop killing Paul and chasing Evan wasn’t bad enough, now the police were going to try to pin Paul’s murder on him.

He could never go for help. He had to run as far and as fast as he could. If the cops found him, he’d wind up in prison or dead.

The sound of a car door closing outside made Evan jump. He turned off the TV and hurried toward the living room. He peered around the edge of the blinds. A sheriff’s department car was parked in the driveway.

Chapter Eighteen

Morgan drank from a Styrofoam cup in the conference room at the sheriff’s office. Ten minutes after the press conference, the sheriff had called Tina, requesting she come down to the station for additional questioning. The timing could not be coincidental. The sheriff wanted something. Morgan schooled her face into a blank expression, but inside, her brain was scrambling. The sheriff had plenty of evidence against Evan, enough to convince a judge to sign off on an arrest warrant for Paul’s murder.

The evidence required for an arrest warrant was lower than the beyond a reasonable doubt standard applied in the courtroom. In order to get an arrest warrant, the sheriff only had to establish that he had probable cause to believe Evan was guilty. Considering the evidence in the case so far, there was only one way to invalidate the warrant: find Paul’s real killer.

Sitting on her left, Lance’s posture was rigid in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest. He made no attempt to disguise the fact that he was seething. Tina huddled in the chair next to him.

“They’re going to shoot him on sight.” Tina chewed on her thumbnail. “I know it. They’re setting up Evan so they can kill him. I was bullied by enough cops when I was a kid. I know how they operate.”

Morgan doubted the police were intentionally setting up Evan to be shot. But listing him as an armed and dangerous suspect, rather than a missing person, definitely increased the risk.

She eyed the camera in the corner of the ceiling. The light was green. They were being recorded. She leaned close to Tina’s ear and whispered, “Take a deep breath.”

“But this isn’t fair.” Tina rubbed her hands together. She obviously hadn’t slept the night before. The circles under her eyes were deep and dark. “Evan wouldn’t hurt anyone. He’s a victim.”

The door opened. Morgan had expected Sheriff Colgate, but the appearance of ADA Esposito behind the sheriff was a surprise. Next to her, Lance stared. The sheriff closed the door. Esposito took the chair opposite Morgan. She and Esposito had faced off over several cases. So far, Morgan was well ahead, and Esposito was chafing for a win. The gleam in his nearly black eyes told Morgan he thought he’d scored big on this case.

Morgan didn’t say a word as the sheriff and ADA settled into their chairs. Sheriff Colgate had a file, notepad, and pen. Esposito needed no props. He smoothed his suit jacket and tugged his French cuffs into place.

She waited, unmoving. They’d called for this meeting. They could open the discussion.

“You have the right to remain silent . . .” The sheriff read Tina her Miranda rights, then slid a piece of paper across the table. “Mrs. Knox, please sign that you understand your rights.”

“Mrs. Knox is a suspect?” Morgan asked. She hadn’t expected them to Mirandize Tina. It would be a conflict of interest for Morgan to represent both Tina and Evan if they were both charged in the same crime, but with no charges filed, she’d worry about that technicality if it ever materialized.

“That might depend on how she answers my questions,” Colgate said.

He wasn’t taking any chances with Tina’s interview.

Lance’s posture shifted. Morgan pressed her ankle against his. She needed him to let her handle the sheriff and ADA. He exhaled hard and settled back into the chair.

“But she was at the urgent care center when Paul was killed,” Morgan said.

“She was,” the sheriff agreed. “But that doesn’t mean she wasn’t involved in her husband’s death.”

Sheriff Colgate leaned forward, flattening both palms on the table. “Mrs. Knox, do you know where your son is?”

“No.” Tina looked confused, but she signed the paper.

Sheriff Colgate slid it to his side of the table. “Has Evan tried to contact you?”

“No.” Tina glanced at Morgan, then back to the sheriff. “This is ridiculous. You had an officer outside my hotel room door all night. How do you think he could have contacted me? Telepathy?”

Morgan bumped Tina’s leg. Taking the hint, Tina clamped her mouth closed.

“What is this about?” Morgan asked.

The sheriff scratched the gray stubble on his face. “We think Mrs. Knox knows more than she’s saying about her husband’s murder and her son’s location.”

“Based on what evidence?” Morgan asked.

Sheriff Colgate glared at her. “The fact that Mrs. Knox withheld two very important pieces of information.”

Morgan folded her hands in front of her. “Mrs. Knox provided a reasonable explanation.”

“She forgot?” One of the sheriff’s bushy white eyebrows lifted. “You call that reasonable?”

Morgan nodded. “Considering she had just found her husband’s dead body? Yes.”

“That makes no sense. If my father had served time for murder, he’d be the first person I’d think of if someone in my family were killed,” the sheriff shot back. “And I think she kept the fight between Paul and Evan to herself because it made Evan look guilty.”

Morgan didn’t comment. Unfortunately, the sheriff’s argument was stronger than hers, and they all knew it.

The sheriff tugged at the collar of his uniform and returned to his questions. “Mrs. Knox, did Evan kill your husband?”

“No!” Tina’s brow lowered.

“How do you know?” the sheriff asked.

“Evan wouldn’t hurt Paul.” Tina enunciated each word distinctly.

“Evan once took a swing at Paul,” the sheriff pointed out.

“That was different.” Tina’s eyes misted. “I already explained what happened.”

He fired another question at her. “Did you delay calling the police to give Evan time to get away?”