The Sheriff's Secret. Julie Lindsey Anne

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      THE RIDE TO Carl Morgan’s house was long and slow. The heater vents circulated scents of Tina’s shampoo and perfume around his head in a hurricane of distraction. “Tell me about this guy,” West said, flipping his headlights on to illuminate the gloomy road.

      Tina shifted in her seat, angling toward him. “Carl’s a nice man. He’s about our age, originally from Florida. He works at Franklin’s Garage. Lives alone. He’s quiet and a little detached. It’s common with trauma survivors. Tender hearts hurt deeply, and we live in a world where growing tough skin is practically a survival requirement.”

      “Could he have gotten himself into trouble? Maybe ticked off a homicidal maniac?”

      Tina’s head was shaking before West stopped talking. “No. Carl’s a people-pleaser, but he’d avoid intimidating individuals.”

      “Not every shooter is an intimidating individual. Look at school shooters and others who’ve committed similar crimes. They’re a lot of things, but dangerous-looking isn’t one of them.”

      She glanced his way, then back at the road.

      “Given that you are well aware of the profile for someone who’d pull a stunt like this, can you tell me unequivocally that neither Carl Morgan or Tucker Bixby fit the mold?”

      “No, but I can tell you there isn’t a mold, and that the number of patients in therapy is far smaller than the number of folks who need it but aren’t getting it. There are probably a hundred people in Cade County who psychologically fit the bill that we don’t know about. So you have no hard evidence to support your theory that the shooter is connected to my group.”

      West gripped the wheel tighter, unable to argue and unwilling to upset her further by playing devil’s advocate. The truth was, he had no idea what was going on in his county today. “Is there anything else you can tell me about Carl before we get there?”

      “No. Just that he’s doing phenomenally in group, so please don’t upset him if you can help it. News of the shooting will be tough enough—badgering him could set his progress back, and I don’t want that.”

      The country road rose and fell before them under a covering of gray clouds. Green reflections of little eyes blinked along the roadside, considering a test of their fate.

      It was late in October and nearing lunchtime already. Barely six hours of sunlight remaining. West had enjoyed autumn as a kid, but he’d learned to see it as a hindrance after joining local law enforcement. Shorter days meant fewer hours to look for clues and missing people. It also gave criminals more time to hide under the cover of night.

      Tina fidgeted with the hem of her sweater. “Where do you think the shooter is now? Do people like that just go home and have dinner? Do they kill themselves? Leave the state?”

      “Depends.” West slowed the cruiser to a crawl at the end of a narrow dirt road. Peeling numbers on the battered mailbox suggested that they’d arrived. “This it?”

      “I don’t know. I’ve never been here.”

      West spun his wheel, navigating a sharp right into the unknown. No Trespassing signs were nailed to posts on either side of the road. A trailer stood fifty feet back, bookended by trees and a picnic table. An aged blue car sat in a bed of gravel out front.

      “That’s his car,” Tina said, unbuckling her belt.

      “Wait.” West stretched a hand across her middle like a guard gate. “It’s dark under all these clouds and trees. I want you to stay put until I give you a signal.”

      “Why?” She dropped her voice to a low, ragged whisper. “Do you think the killer’s here?”

      He gave the dark trailer another long inspection. “Not necessarily. There’s only one vehicle, and it’s not a pickup, but I’d rather be safe, so wait here until I give you an all clear. Understand?”

      “Okay.”

      He popped his door open and flashed her a warning look when the interior light came on. “I mean it this time.”

      She made a show of fixing her hands on her lap.

      West flipped his bright lights on and locked her in the car. The cruiser’s headlights illuminated a path to the trailer. West scanned the ground for signs of a struggle as he moved. Nothing unusual, no fallen items, drag marks or drops of blood. He stepped with care onto the makeshift wooden deck outside the front door, and a motion light snapped on.

      West’s heart rate sprang into overdrive. He reseated his sidearm, unleashed on instinct at the unexpected flick of the light, and rapped on the trailer door. Surprisingly, the shock hadn’t increased his headache. The aspirin must’ve finally taken effect. He braced his free palm against the butt of his gun. “Cade County Sheriff, Mr. Morgan,” he boomed.

      The trailer rocked slightly. Interior lights flashed on one by one from the back to the front. West moved away as the silver door swung open.

      A heavy-lidded man in worn jeans and a faded blue T-shirt squinted at the cruiser’s lights. “Hello?”

      “Over here, Mr. Morgan,” West said. “Do you know why I’m here?” He examined Carl slowly for signs of a weapon.

      Carl blinked long and slow, scrubbing calloused hands over his thick brown hair. “Was there an accident on the road?”

      “No, sir.” West took a more relaxed stance, but kept the distance. “You want to tell me why you aren’t at work?”

      “I had a migraine.” He pressed a palm to one side of his head in evidence. “I’ve been in bed.”

      “You get migraines often?”

      “Sometimes.” Carl’s gaze drifted back to the cruiser. “Is someone else in there?” He shielded his eyes with one hand.

      West ignored the question. “You’ve been home all morning?”

      Carl dipped his chin, still preoccupied with the cruiser’s lights.

      “Any visitors?”

      “Not until you. Why? I don’t understand what’s going on.”

      “You missed your group session. Don’t you usually call ahead if you’re not coming?”

      “I—I’ve never missed. I d-didn’t know I had to call.”

      The stutter gave West pause. Tina’s words came back to mind. Much as he’d like to continue questioning Carl alone, he didn’t want to be the reason the man relapsed or whatever Tina had just warned might happen. He lifted a hand without taking his eyes off Carl and opened and shut his palm, beckoning Tina from her place of safety. He changed positions as she approached, putting the trailer’s wall at his back and everything else within his line of vision, peripheral or otherwise.

      The passenger door opened, and Carl took a step backward, arm extended toward the trailer door.

      “Stop,” West ordered, and both people froze. He motioned to Tina again, attention fixed on Carl. “Keep your hands where I can see them, Mr. Morgan.”

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