“I know them,” Carl said. “You can stand down.” He turned to Lance. “What happened?”

Lance explained as he maintained his grip on the now-limp man on the ground. “He’s been saying odd things about a dead girl and blood. That little camp over there is his.”

“Let’s put him in the back of the car.” Carl pointed at his companion.

“He needs a bath.” Cop Two grimaced as he handcuffed the shooter and hauled him to his feet.

He held the man still while Carl patted him down. He emptied Camo Man’s pockets, tossing a folding knife, some loose change, and a wallet to the ground. Carl opened the wallet and skimmed through it. “His name is Dean Voss.” Carl turned to the man. “Dean? Want to tell me why you were shooting at these people?”

“The girl is dead, and it’s all my fault.” Dean stared at his boots. “They’re coming to get me.”

“Who is coming to get you?” Carl asked in a gentle voice.

Dean lifted his gaze. The eyes that swept over them were opened wide with terror. “You can’t lock me up. They’ll find me. They’ll kill me. I have to run. I have to hide.”

“It’s all right. We won’t let anyone get you,” Carl said.

But Dean wasn’t convinced. He turned and tried to pull away from the uniform. Carl took his opposite arm. Dean went ballistic, but his bound arms and weakened condition didn’t allow for much opposition. Carl and Cop Two held him steady until he stopped struggling and stood still, shaky, limp, and pathetic.

“Let’s get him out of here.” Carl accompanied the second cop and Dean back to the road. He returned in a few minutes. “He’s on his way to the holding cell, but I expect he’ll be transferred to a psychiatric facility. Doesn’t take an expert to see that he’s unstable.”

“Who’s the new guy?” Lance asked.

“Rookie.” Carl nodded. “This is his third day. He’s very enthusiastic. Sorry about him blasting his siren.”

“I remember those days,” Lance said. “We were all that enthusiastic at the start.”

Lance and Morgan gave Carl their statements, making sure to highlight Dean’s outbursts about the dead girl and blood.

Morgan brushed dirt and dead leaves from her skirt. Dirt and sweat stained her blouse. Her face was pale and her voice shaky. Scratches crisscrossed her calves.

Carl nodded. “I’ll call for a forensics team to go through his camp. Brody is on his way. He wants to talk to both of you.”

“Thank you,” she said.

Morgan and Lance stepped aside while Carl secured the scene. Morgan took her own pictures. Not that she didn’t trust the police, but . . . they were so sure they’d already caught the killer, she wanted to be sure no new evidence got “lost.”

Brody arrived before the forensics van. He gave the camp a thorough once-over before joining Morgan and Lance. Lance recapped what had happened.

Brody snapped shut his notebook. “I’ll let you know if I have any further questions.”

“Dean Voss is clearly connected to the Palmer murder,” Morgan said.

Brody offered a brief, noncommittal nod. “I’m going to attempt to interview Dean now, but from what you and Carl have said, he’s likely too unstable to give a rational statement. In that case, we’ll have to wait for a psychiatric evaluation, and we’ll see what the forensic team turns up.”

“Can we go?” Lance asked.

“Yes,” Brody said.

“You’ll call us if you find anything relevant to the Palmer case?” Lance asked.

“I’ll pass your request on to Chief Horner.” With a frown, Brody turned and left.

What the hell did that mean?

Carl was marking off the camp with crime scene tape. He directed Lance and Morgan to the outside of the perimeter.

This is what happens when you change sides. Lance was no longer one of them. And now that he’d joined Morgan, he was likely shut out of the loop forever.

But if he’d denied her request, she would have come to the scene alone. She could have been killed.

Morgan and Lance made their way back to the beach. The dropping sun hovered over the tops of the trees and cast golden light on the lake. Lance checked the time on his phone. Six-thirty. “Half hour until sundown. Maybe we should call it a day. You can clean up at the office before you head home.” He eyed the scrapes on her legs.

“Good idea.” She brushed at a streak of dirt on her calf.

“Are you all right?” he asked Morgan.

“Yes. I’m afraid I’m not feeling much in the way of trust in the SFPD right now.”

“Chief Horner is a pain, but Brody is a good cop. You can count on him.”

“I hope so.” She plucked a pine needle from her skirt.

“I’m going to call my mom and add Dean to her list of background checks. I’m sure she can dig up plenty of personal information.”

Morgan said, “From Dean’s ramblings, I’m convinced either he killed Tessa or he saw who did.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Morgan got out of the Jeep as soon as Lance parked behind her minivan in front of Sharp Investigations. Her scraped leg ached as she detoured to her van and removed a gym bag from the cargo area. The sun had set, and dusk settled over the quiet street. They went up the walk and climbed the steps of the dark duplex.

Lance unlocked the front door. “I didn’t know you went to a gym.”

“Two months ago, I bought a two-week trial membership. I went twice. The gym bag has been sitting in there since.” Morgan followed him into the office.

“Sharp must be out.” Lance closed and locked the door behind them.

“You obviously work out regularly.” She scanned his muscles on top of muscles.

He shrugged. “My physical therapy regimen is intensive.”

“It’s helped you recover?”

“Yes. It’s also good for releasing endorphins and purging stress.”

“That was my intention with the trial membership.” She had plenty of excuses about the kids taking up all her time, but in reality, she just hadn’t been motivated to exercise.

Or to do much else.

Lance steered her back to the kitchen. He took a first aid kit from the cabinet. “Sit down.”

“I can clean my cuts myself,” she protested.

“Fine.” He set the kit on the table and went to the fridge. Taking out a bottle of water, he put one in front of her, then retreated to the other side of the small room, leaned back against the cabinets, and watched.

Morgan sat down and bent over her knees. Blood and dirt caked the scratches on her legs. She squirted antiseptic onto a gauze pad and began to blot. There was more dirt than blood. A few superficial scrapes on her shins were already scabbing over, but a deeper abrasion on her ankle was bright red and still bleeding. She dabbed at it, wincing at the sting. The gauze caught on something. Several large splinters were stuck in her skin. She must have picked them up from the log Lance had jammed her behind, not that she was complaining. He’d put his body between her and an active shooter.

She’d held her act together during the moment, but now that she was safe, her hands trembled as she replayed the incident in her head. She flexed her fingers to steady them. Shaking the memory away, she focused on her ankle. Once she was home and alone, she could fall apart. She tried to get a better look, but she couldn’t get her ankle closer without hiking her skirt up to her hips.

And thinking about doing that . . .

Her gaze flickered to Lance, leaning on the counter, his thick arms crossed over his thicker chest. He was not the sort of man who could blend into the background. His body—and personality—took up too much space. So much that her eyes were drawn to him whenever he was in the same room.

He was so different from John. Her husband had been tall, thin, and dark, with an easygoing personality. Lance was blond, heavily muscled, and intense.

Very intense.

She blinked and looked away.

What was wrong with her? It must be the aftereffect of being shot at. Her emotions were all over the place.

“Is there a pair of tweezers in that box?” she asked.