the shelves.
Wade’s business partner, Brock Ryan, looked up from rearranging a display of T-shirts. The one in his hand, Travis noted, bore the legend Do It In the Outdoors. “Hey, Travis,” he said. “You didn’t pass a skinny teenager in a red beanie on your way over here, did you?”
“No,” Travis said. “Was that your shoplifter?”
“Yeah. I caught him red-handed shoving a hundred-dollar water filter down his pants. I sat him down up front by the register and told him we would wait until you got here before we decided whether or not to file charges.”
Unlike Wade, who was short and stocky, Brock was tall and lean, with the squinting gaze of a man who had spent long hours in the sun and wind.
“What happened after that?” Travis asked.
“I turned my back to get a tray of fishing flies out of the case for a customer and the kid took off,” Brock said, his face reddening.
“Did the kid give you a name?” Travis asked. “Did you recognize him?”
Both men shook their heads. “He wasn’t from around here,” Wade said. “He wouldn’t say anything to us, so we figured we’d let you see if you could get anything out of him.”
“Maybe you two scared him enough he won’t come back,” Travis said.
“Burns me up when somebody comes in here and tries to take what we’ve worked hard for,” Brock said. He punched his hand in his fist. “If that kid ever shows his face here again, I’ll make sure he never tries to steal from me again.”
Travis put a hand on the tall man’s shoulder. “Don’t let your temper get the best of you,” he said. “If the kid comes back, call the office and one of us will take care of it.”
Brock hesitated, then nodded. “Right.”
A third man emerged from a door at the back of the shop—a lean, broad-shouldered guy in a black knit beanie. He looked as if he had been carved from iron—all sharp angles and hard muscle. He scanned Travis from head to toe, lingering a moment on the badge on his chest, and Travis wouldn’t have called his expression friendly. “Do you have a new employee?” Travis asked, nodding toward the man.
Brock glanced over his shoulder. “That’s Ian,” he said. “A friend of mine.”
Ian nodded, but didn’t offer to shake hands. “I’ll wait in back,” he said to Brock, and exited the way he had come.
“Your friend got a problem with cops?” Travis asked.
“He’s not comfortable with new people,” Wade said. “He did four tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. He has trouble sometimes with PTSD.”
Travis nodded. Maybe that explained the hostility he had felt from the guy. Or maybe Travis was more suspicious than most people. A hazard of the job, he supposed. “I doubt you’ll have any more trouble from your shoplifter,” he said to Wade and Brock. “You probably scared him off. But I’ll keep my eyes open.”
“Thanks.”
Travis returned to his SUV and climbed in. He started the vehicle and was about to pull out of his parking spot when he glanced over at the passenger seat and slammed on the brakes. The box and the rock that had been thrown through Lacy’s window were gone.
“Why would someone steal the rock?” Lacy folded her arms over her chest and took a step back from Travis. He had shown up at her house this morning—supposedly to “check on” her and her family. But then he had come out with this crazy story about someone taking the rock that had been thrown through her window. “Do you think I took it or something?”
“No!” He put up his hands, as if he wanted to reach for her, then put them down. “I wanted you to know because you’re the victim in this case, and you have a right to know what’s going on.”
She unfolded her arms, relaxing a little. She had insisted on talking with him on the front porch—mainly so her parents wouldn’t overhear. Her mom and dad meant well, but they tended to hover now that she was back home. “So someone just opened the door of your sheriff’s department vehicle and took the evidence box?” she asked. “How does that happen? Wasn’t your door locked?”
“No one locks their car doors around here.” He looked sheepish—an endearing expression, really—and she didn’t want to feel anything like that for him. “Besides, it’s a cop car. Who breaks into a cop car? And to steal a rock?”
“Maybe they didn’t know what was in the box?” she said. “Or maybe somebody is pranking you—wants to give you a hard time.”
“Maybe.” He put one booted foot up on a metal footlocker her mom used as a side table on the porch, and she tried not to notice the way the khaki fabric stretched over his muscular thigh. She didn’t like being around Travis, but apparently her body couldn’t ignore the fact that he was the sexiest guy she’d been near in three years. “Or maybe whoever threw the rock took it because they thought I could use it somehow to link them to the crime,” he added.
She forced her mind away from ogling the sheriff’s hot body to what was surely a more important matter. “Can you do that?” she asked. “Would a rock have fingerprints on it or something?”
“The surface was too rough to give good latent prints, and it looked like a common enough rock.”
“What about DNA?” she asked.
He laughed. “No offense, but no one does DNA testing for an act of vandalism. It’s expensive, and the results take a while to come back.”
She lowered herself to the cushioned rattan love seat. Her mother had made the cushions out of flowered chintz, faded now by the summer sun, but all the more comfortable and homey for it. “If the person who threw the rock stole it out of your SUV, that means they knew you had it. They must have been watching and seen you come to the house to get it.”
Travis sat beside her, the cushion dipping under his weight. She caught the scent of soap and starch and clean man, and fought to keep from leaning toward him. “Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe they knew your family would call my office to report the threat, they saw my SUV and decided to take a look inside.”
“Either way, I’m completely creeped out.” She gripped the edge of the love seat. She had thought when she walked out of prison that she would feel free again, but she still felt trapped. Watched.
“I talked to Brenda Stenson yesterday,” Travis said. “She’s okay with us going through Andy’s files.”
Lacy nodded. “I’m not looking forward to that, you know.”
“I understand. But I’m hoping coming at the files cold after a few years away, you’ll spot something or remember something that didn’t seem relevant before.”
“What about the other evidence from the crime scene?” she asked. “Wasn’t there anything that pointed to someone besides me as the murderer? Or did you conveniently overlook that?”
