Trace Evidence in Tarrant County. Delores Fossen

      Was it her imagination or did Carley hear his stomach rumble?

      She fought a smile. “What can I say—I’m a cliché. A cop with a donut addiction.”

      She glanced at the monitor when there was some movement so she could see what the camera had recorded. There was some light coming from her office window, and it gave enough illumination for her to see that it was merely two cats that seemed to have amorous intentions. A moment later they disappeared into the thick woods and out of camera range.

      Sloan sat down again, volleying glances between her breakfast and the monitor. “You’re not going to offer me any of that donut?”

      “Didn’t plan on it.”

      He grinned. Sheez, it was that all-star, billon-dollar grin. “That smile won’t work on me,” she grumbled.

      “What smile?” Oh, butter would not melt in his mouth.

      “That one you’re flashing right now. I suspect it’s coaxed many women into lots of things, including clothing removal. But I’m immune to it. And it won’t work on parting me from my donut.”

      The grin morphed. Just a tad. But instead of evoking sultry thoughts, it had a sad puppy-dog look to it.

      “Besides,” he drawled. “You should be eating something more nutritious since you’re recovering from your injuries. When we’re done looking at this disk, we can head to the diner and get you some real breakfast. While we’re there, I’ll have a donut.”

      Carley didn’t like the sound of that. Her goal was to finish this situation report, review the surveillance disk and then get him the heck out of her office so she could continue her own investigation.

      Maybe sharing the donut would speed things up.

      Figuring this would cause them to skip the trip to the diner, she ripped the donut in half, plopped his half back on the paper plate and shoved it across the desk toward him.

      “Thanks,” he mumbled, diving right into it. “See? We do have some common ground. Our shared love of sugary, high fat pastries that have no nutritional value.”

      “You call that common ground?”

      Sloan used that smile again. “Hey, I’ll take what I can get.”

      She could have added something snarky—like, he had already gotten everything he could possibly get—but the sugary donut was making her fingers sticky, so she began to eat it.

      “I’ve arranged to meet with both Donna and Leland this afternoon.” Sloan tossed that out there in between bites.

      Carley didn’t know if that was an invitation for her to join him or if he was merely continuing with his briefing. She decided to go with the option that suited her. “Let me know when and where, and I’ll be there.”

      “At two this afternoon. Here at the police station.” He tipped his head to the filing cabinet. “Just how strong are those pain pills?”

      Mercy. She’d forgotten all about those. They’d blended in amid the stacks of files and other clutter. “Not strong enough to keep me off this case,” she insisted. “Besides, I haven’t even taken any of them.” She would have added more, would have probably even started a fresh argument, if there hadn’t been more movement on the screen.

      “It’s motion-activated,” Sloan commented, his attention now fully on the monitor. He set the rest of the donut aside.

      Carley followed suit. Because what she saw captured her complete attention, as well.

      No amorous cats this time. It was a shadowy figure. She turned the monitor, hoping for a better angle. Sloan walked around the desk and stood behind her.

      “I can’t tell if it’s a man or a woman,” he mumbled.

      “I can’t tell if it’s even human. It looks a little like a scarecrow in a Halloween costume.”

      “Definitely human. The person’s wearing a mask and a cloak.”

      She studied the image and had to agree. But the person didn’t have just a cloak and mask. There was something in his or her hand. The light from her office danced off that something. It was a glint of metal.

      And on the screen Carley saw the gun rigged with a silencer.

      That barely had time to register in her mind when there was the first shot.

      And it wasn’t aimed at the camera.

      The gunman saved the second bullet for that.

      Sloan reached over and pressed a button to rewind the disk. He stopped it just as the first shot was in progress. Carley saw then what she hadn’t wanted to see.

      Mercy.

      A chill went through her.

      “This person wasn’t just gunning for your surveillance camera, Carley,” Sloan confirmed. “He or she was gunning for you.”

      Chapter Three

      “Are you okay?” Sloan asked when he saw the expression on Carley’s face.

      What little color she’d had drained from her cheeks. Not without reason. She’d just witnessed a recording of someone attempting to kill her.

      “The shots were fired at 1:13 this morning,” Carley mumbled, obviously noting the time displayed on the bottom of the monitor.

      “You weren’t here when it happened?”

      “No. I finished up work about a half hour before that, but I’d left on the light. I didn’t notice it until after I’d locked up and made my way back to the inn.” She looked up at him. “I can see my office window from my attic apartment. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to leave the light on all night and I knew I’d be back in the office early.”

      Sloan played around with that a moment and took it to its logical conclusion. “So, because of the light, someone might have thought you were inside here working at 1:13 this morning.”

      Carley nodded. “It’s not unusual for me to be here at that hour.”

      He didn’t doubt it.

      From all accounts, Carley was driven to be the best sheriff ever. That included plenty of seventy-hour work weeks, even though technically the sheriff’s office was only supposed to open from eight to five, with all calls before and after hours going through dispatch. He figured with Carley around, dispatch wasn’t taking many of the calls, because she made sure she was readily available for the citizens of Justice.

      Sloan glanced around the room. “The window’s intact, no broken glass. I don’t see any point of entry for that first bullet.”

      He watched the steel and resolution return to Carley’s eyes, and she got up at the exact second that he headed for the door.

      The race was afoot.

      She rushed around her desk and then came to a complete stop. That stopped Sloan, especially when Carley caught onto her side.

      “It’s nothing,” she said, no doubt as a preemptive strike against what he was about to say.

      Sloan gave her a flat look. “If it’s nothing, then why are you holding your side?”

      She immediately lowered her hands.

      That was the last straw. Sloan stormed toward her, and before she could stop him—or slap him into the middle of next week—he went after her shirt buttons.

      “What in Sam Hill do you think you’re doing?” Carley snarled.

      Sloan ignored her, and probably because she was in too much pain, she didn’t even attempt to fight him off. He undid the lower buttons at her midsection and had a look at the bandage. No blood. No raw, red areas on the skin. That was a good sign. But the edge of the adhesive tape