Single Father Sheriff. Carol Ericson

up, they stumbled to a stop.

      “What’s going on?”

      Kendall cleared her throat. “Someone left something in my truck, probably a stupid joke.”

      The couple, who had two kids at home, picked up their pace and approached the circle of white light. The woman spoke up. “What kind of joke?”

      “A stupid mannequin.”

      The man draped his arm around his wife and forced a laugh. “Teenagers.”

      Coop shot a glance at his two deputies, willing them to keep quiet about the fact that the mannequin was a child and wrapped up to look like a dead body.

      Melissa and Daryl must’ve ended the party because a steady stream of people started leaving their house, all drawn to the investigation area like lemmings to the sea.

      Sergeant Payton and Stevens went about their business as Coop and Kendall fielded questions and kept the looky-loos at bay.

      Finally, they all cleared out and when the last one drove off, Melissa and Daryl barreled down the drive.

      Melissa took Kendall’s hand. “Anything?”

      “Nothing yet, but they’re about to take the thing out of the truck.”

      “Maybe we’ll find something when we bring it in.” Coop opened the back door of the squad car. “Lay it in the backseat.”

      He turned to Daryl while the sergeant and Stevens wrestled with the mannequin. “Do you guys have a security camera on the house?”

      “No, but after this? We’re getting one. Tell us the best model to buy and we’ll buy it.”

      “Will do.”

      “Sweetie, do you want to come inside for a while?” Melissa rubbed a circle on Kendall’s back. “You’re freezing, and I promise I won’t make you help clean up—unless you want to.”

      “Thanks, Melissa, but I just want to get home.”

      Coop raised his hand. “I’m taking Kendall home.”

      “That’s okay. I think that second glass of wine has worn off by now.”

      “Ha! Let me warn you, ma’am, if you attempt to get behind the wheel of this truck, I’m gonna have to arrest you.”

      Melissa squeezed Kendall’s shoulder. “I can pick you up tomorrow, Kendall, to get the truck or if you want to leave the keys, Daryl can take it over in the morning.”

      “If you don’t mind.” Kendall dug the keys to the truck out of her purse and dangled them in front of Melissa.

      Melissa snatched them from her fingers. “Not at all. Go—warm up, relax. You’re in good hands with Sheriff Sloane.”

      They said their goodbyes and Coop bundled Kendall in the passenger seat of his civilian car—a truck but a newer model than Kendall’s old jalopy.

      He slid a glance at Kendall’s profile, which looked carved from ice. “Are you okay?”

      “I’m fine.”

      “It might just be a joke. There’s some pretty sick humor out there, and you know teens.”

      “You’re probably right. Why would the kidnapper want to expose himself to scrutiny before he collects his ransom?”

      His hands tightened on the steering wheel in a spasm. She had to know that if the kidnapper hadn’t demanded a ransom now, chances are good he never would. None was ever asked for her twin sister.

      Spitting angry droplets against his windshield, the rain started up again before he pulled into her driveway. Steffi hated the rain and another pinprick of guilt needled him next to all the others for making her stay in a place she didn’t like, a place that never seemed like home even though she was born here. It had seemed like a good idea at the time to stay. Now he wasn’t quite so sure.

      He parked the truck and killed the engine. He’d at least walk Kendall up to the front door, not that he felt comfortable leaving her here after that stunt.

      She swung around. “Do you want to come inside for a minute? I hate the rain.”

      “Sure. This was supposed to be a relaxing evening for me, a kickoff to a few vacation days, and I spent the second half of it working.”

      “Sorry.”

      “I don’t blame you—not much, anyway.”

      A smile quirked her lips, and she grabbed the door handle.

      He exited the truck and followed her to the porch, scanning her outdoor lighting and the screens on her windows. She could use a surveillance system here, too.

      She unlocked the door and twisted her head over her shoulder. “I think you’ll find it a little easier to breathe in here compared to this afternoon.”

      He stepped across the threshold and took a deep breath. Not only did he not get a lungful of dust, but the sweet scent of a candle or some air freshener tickled his nose. “That’s better.”

      “I can’t vouch for the rest of the rooms, but at least this one’s clean, and the kitchen and the bedroom where I’m sleeping.” She tossed her purse on the nearest chair. “I’m going to admit defeat and get a cleaning crew in to finish the job.”

      “Probably not a bad idea.” He poked the toe of his boot at one of the boxes. “When are you going to have the estate sale?”

      “As early as this weekend. You looking for some furniture from the Nixon era?”

      “I think I’ll pass.”

      “Would you like something to drink?”

      He took a turn around the room, his gaze wandering to the cabinet where the phantom spider had been hiding. “Coffee, if it’s not too much trouble.”

      “None, but do you need to get home to your daughter?”

      Ah, he knew that was coming. “She’s having a sleepover with her friend, who happens to be the daughter of our receptionist at the station.”

      “She’s five?” She crooked her finger. “Follow me to the kitchen while I make the coffee.”

      He folded his arms and wedged a shoulder against the doorway into the small kitchen. “Yeah, Steffi’s five and a half, as she’ll be quick to tell you, and she’s in kindergarten at Carver Elementary.”

      “Good, old Carver.” She poured water into the coffeemaker and punched the button to start the brew. “Are you...married?”

      Knew that one was coming, too.

      He held up his left hand and wiggled his fingers. “Nope.”

      “Divorced?”

      Even though it had been business, he’d poked into her personal life and that intimacy must’ve given her the impression it was okay for her to return the favor. She probably wouldn’t feel the same way if one of her clients turned the tables and started asking her personal questions.

      “I’m sorry. I’m prying. Occupational hazard. You can just ignore me, if you like.” She turned and grabbed the handle to the refrigerator. “Milk with your coffee? No cream.”

      “I take it black, and I don’t mind the third degree.”

      “Yes, you do.” She pulled a carton of milk from the fridge. “Your face closed down, and your mouth got tight.”

      “You’d be good interviewing suspects.” He took a quick breath and then blurted out, “She’s dead.”

      Her hand jerked and the milk she’d been pouring into a mug sloshed onto the counter. “Excuse me?”

      “My wife—she’s dead.”

      “I’m