Trace Evidence in Tarrant County. Delores Fossen

      “And what about the fake kidnapping of your own son? You’re innocent of that, too? Because Sarah, your dead stepdaughter, said differently.”

      Leland probably didn’t want to react, either. But he did. Every muscle in his body seemed to tense. “It doesn’t matter what that witch Sarah said. Even if I admitted I’d planned a fake kidnapping, you can’t arrest me for that. The statute of limitations is on my side. Besides, I’ve paid in the worst way a father can. My son disappeared that night. I don’t know if he’s alive or dead.”

      “You’re 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.