Trace Evidence in Tarrant County. Delores Fossen

certain you don’t know that?” Sloan asked.

      That did not please Leland. The veins on his neck began to bulge. “I have no idea where he is. If he’s alive, I don’t know who has him or where he’s been for the past sixteen years. That’s punishment enough.”

      Sloan shrugged. “It won’t be if I can prove you murdered those women. There is no statute of limitations on murder, and right now I’m making you for these killings.”

      Leland glared at Carley before he turned that glare on Sloan. “You’ll never prove it.”

      “Never say never, Leland,” Sloan countered. “Oh, and if you’re not there for that interview this afternoon, I’ll have you cuffed and brought in just like anyone who disobeys the law.”

      There was a staredown, and Sloan wasn’t the first to blink. Leland was. He mumbled, “I’ll be there,” along with some choice profanity, then stormed away, disappearing around the building.

      “Well, wasn’t that a special way to start the morning,” Carley grumbled.

      “That started the morning,” Sloan said, pointing at the bullet lodged near the window. “I’ll dig it out and send it to the crime lab.”

      “Nearly everybody in town owns at least one .38,” she reminded him. “And I’m willing to bet there are a dozen or more that aren’t registered, so we don’t even know about them. Matching that bullet to a specific firearm will be a needle in a haystack.”

      A slim chance was still a chance, and the truth was, they had little physical evidence to connect anyone to Sarah’s murder. The bullet was a start. But he had other avenues to explore.

      One of those avenues was standing beside him.

      “Maybe this latest attempt to shoot you isn’t about something you saw less than a week ago right after Sarah’s murder. Maybe this is about the first murder—Lou Ann’s? If so, maybe you saw or heard something sixteen years ago that the killer doesn’t want you to recall.”

      “Then why wait all these years to come after me?” she asked.

      “Because, other than the killer, you might be the only person in the entire town who was close enough to witness both murders. Either the killer thinks you saw something or you did see something and you just don’t remember it.”

      Her posture became defensive again. “I remember everything about that night, and the only person that I saw anywhere near Lou Ann’s room was your father.”

      “You could have missed something. A few hours before the body was found, you were sitting in that big, comfortable chair in the lobby at the inn, reading a teen magazine with Johnny Depp on the cover.”

      Her defensive posture went up a notch. “How did you know that?”

      “I looked through the window and saw you.”

      Carley’s eyes widened considerably. “What—you’re a Peeping Tom?”

      “I’m not. I was looking for my father,” Sloan calmly answered.

      And he’d looked at Carley, too. In fact, she’d distracted him that night. Why? Because for the first time he’d noticed that she was no longer the gangly girl two grades behind him in school. Among other things, he’d noticed that she had breasts. But it was her mouth that had really caught his attention. The heart shape. The full bottom lip. Her mouth was sultry then. And it was sultry now.

      Something Sloan wished he hadn’t remembered.

      “I saw you that night, too.” Her voice was low and whispery, as if this wasn’t something she wanted to admit. However, her voice didn’t have to be loud to grab his attention.

      “Where? When?” Sloan asked.

      “I heard something and looked out the window. You were walking on Main Street, headed in the direction of your house.” She cleared her throat. “That was about an hour and a half before the murder.”

      She turned and started inside, but Sloan caught onto her arm. “I get the feeling there’s more that you’re not telling me.”

      Carley didn’t jump to her defense and she didn’t huff at his accusation. “I’ve told you everything that’s pertinent to the murder and to this investigation.”

      Sloan really didn’t care for the way she’d phrased that. “Does that mean there are other nonpertinent things you haven’t told me?”

      She didn’t answer. Which in itself was probably an answer—yes, she was withholding something. Carley eased out of his grip and she walked back into the building.

      Sloan didn’t want to dwell on it. After all, Carley wasn’t the type to withhold vital information that would affect the outcome of the case.

      So what secrets did she have?

      The question settled hard and raw in his stomach. Because it made Sloan search his own memory. It made him recall things about that night. Specifically something that had haunted him for the past sixteen years.

      It haunted him now.

      Carley Matheson wasn’t the only one keeping secrets.

      Chapter Four

      Does that mean there are other nonpertinent things you haven’t told me?

      Carley frowned.

      Sloan’s question kept flashing like a neon sign in her head. Either she was missing the gene that could supply her with a poker face or Sloan was psychic. Because there was indeed something “nonpertinent” that she hadn’t told him. Nor would she. It was just one of those totally embarrassing events that a woman didn’t want to have to recount aloud.

      Especially since Sloan was that nonpertinent detail.

      Yes, she’d seen him that night, but seeing him wasn’t all she’d done. She’d stepped out the side door of the inn and watched him, well, walk down the street. She’d even followed him for a few minutes. At the time, she’d blamed the voyeurism on boredom, the sweltering summer heat and her leftover lusting brought on by that magazine picture of Johnny Depp.

      But she had to blame it on Sloan, as well.

      That night, she’d finally figured out what the other girls had meant about his bedroom eyes. Oh, yes. He’d stirred things in her that even Johnny Depp hadn’t managed to stir, and that was something Carley planned on taking to her grave. Sloan was already cocky enough without learning he’d had that kind of effect on her. She wasn’t about to be labeled a Sloan McKinney groupie.

      “You’re awfully quiet,” Sloan commented.

      Sitting at her desk, she glanced up at him. He was in the doorway, his hands bracketed on either side of the frame, and he was staring at her. Specifically he was staring at her mouth. Probably waiting for her to explain herself.

      Uh-oh.

      It was time to get this conversation back on something it should be on—the case.

      “I’ll have one of the deputies start the gun roundup for the .38s,” she informed him. “Then the crime lab can do the ballistics tests and compare that bullet lodged in the brick to the guns from the town.”

      Sloan pushed himself away from the door and stepped toward her. He reached over and ejected the surveillance disk from the computer. “And I’ll send this to the crime lab, as well. They might be able to enhance the image so we can figure out who fired those shots.”

      “Yeah,” Carley mumbled, recalling both the image and the shots. “It’ll be nice to know who wants me dead.”

      Their eyes met before he leaned back away from her. “I’m sure it’s not personal.”

      “Somehow that doesn’t make it any easier to accept.” Carley decided it was a good time to sign the time sheets