He took a step toward her.

And saw her retreat again.

He wanted to put his arms around her. Hold her.

But Lauren had made it clear she didn’t want his touch.

Crime scene. Focus on the victim. Not Lauren.

“Looks like he went north,” Wesley murmured as he studied the direction of the tracks. “Buckhead Road is two miles north of here. He could have hit it and then made his way back to the city.”

Or he could still be in the swamp. Hiding. Waiting.

* * *

“It doesn’t look like anyone is here,” Lauren said quietly as she stared at the small home located on the end of Azalea Lane. A neat house, with a trimmed lawn and white shutters on the front windows.

The home of Ben Fort—Stacy Crawford’s boyfriend.

My boyfriend didn’t want to leave. He had a job he was doin’, but it’s over, and we can go now…After my shift, I’m free.

There would be no going then. Lauren felt sadness weighing in her heart. Stacy had been so close to getting away.

Just hours from freedom.

“He was supposed to leave with her last night.” Anthony drummed his fingers lightly against the steering wheel. “So why the hell didn’t he call the cops when she didn’t come home?”

The house was dark. No car sat in the narrow driveway. “Maybe he doesn’t know,” Lauren murmured. She’d had to break the news to families before, and it always tore at her guts to see their grief.

Anthony turned his head to look at her. “You think he didn’t notice that his girlfriend wasn’t in bed with him when he woke up this morning? It’s pretty damn hard to miss something like that.”

Ben Fort was a thirty-four-year-old mechanic who’d just gotten a new job in Jackson, Mississippi. Paul had pulled up the guy’s record for them. Fort had a few drunk-driving charges, and an assault charge that had landed him in jail for six months.

Ben Fort was also the owner of a 2003 Harley motorcycle.

Anthony checked his weapon. “Stay in the vehicle.”

She grabbed his hand. “Why? Because you think he’s a victim…or a killer?”

Paul and a team of cops were working the crime scene in the swamp. Anthony had wanted to get to Fort ASAP, especially when the check on the guy had revealed that he owned a motorcycle.

Lauren hadn’t wanted to stay in the swamp—more death, more blood—so she’d jumped in the SUV with Anthony. But now…

“I think he could be either one, and I’m not about to risk you as I find out what the answer is.” He reached into the glove box and pulled out a second, smaller handgun. “Keep this close, and keep the doors locked.”

Her fingers curled around the gun. “Be careful.”

His smile held a reckless edge. “Always.”

Then he was gone. Heading toward the house with a confident, hard march. She didn’t take her eyes off him, couldn’t. He went to the door and pounded his fist. They didn’t have a search warrant. There wasn’t enough evidence for that.

Her gaze swept to the property. There were no cars in the drive, but she could see the back of the bike, peeking out from beneath a big, blue tarp near the carport.

Her heart beat faster.

Anthony pounded the door once more.

Ben Fort was home—at least, his ride was there—so why wasn’t he answering?

She sat up straighter, her gaze searching the area. If Walker had gone after Stacy, then maybe he’d also gone after Stacy’s lover. Maybe Ben wasn’t answering the door because he couldn’t answer.

Was he inside, already dead?

Or…dying?

From the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of movement. Near the carport. Metal glinted, shining in the sunlight. The bike wasn’t under the tarp any longer. Because someone was there, tossing the cover away, trying to sneak away.

Victim…

Killer?

Anthony didn’t see him. He was on the front porch, peering in the nearby window. The man was rolling the bike away, not cranking it, so Anthony wouldn’t hear his movements.

He’d told her to stay in the vehicle, but she wasn’t about to let Fort get away.

She shoved open her door and jumped out. “Anthony! The garage!”

At her yell, the motorcycle’s engine flared to life with a growl. Anthony immediately jumped over the porch’s railing and raced for the motorcycle. So did Lauren. While Anthony was coming from the side, Lauren was in front, trying to block Fort’s path.

She had a fast impression of a big, hulking guy, a buzz cut, and hard eyes—and the motorcycle. Bearing right down on her.

She lifted the gun. “Stop!”

The motorcycle swerved and kicked up gravel. The man wheeled the bike around, trying to find another path.

Only he didn’t find another path. He lost control. The motorcycle slid onto its side, slipping and twisting away from him. The man flew onto the pavement, hitting with a thudding impact.

Lauren’s breath sawed from her lungs.

The guy leaped back to his feet and started to run. Anthony threw out his arm, clotheslining the man right around the neck. Buzz cut fell back, slamming once more into the pavement. This time when he tried to get up, he found himself staring down the barrel of Anthony’s gun.

“Benjamin Fort?” Anthony snapped the name.

Lauren tightened her grip on her weapon and slowly advanced.

The guy on the ground spat out a mouthful of blood. “Yeah, and who the fuck are you?”

“U.S. Marshal.” Anthony didn’t lower his gun. “And that woman you nearly ran down, that’s the fucking DA. Asshole, you just stepped into a whole world of hurt.” There was a deadly promise in his voice.

A promise that made Lauren tense because it was so dark, so dangerous, and so very certain.

* * *

Anthony stood with his arms crossed, his control held tight, as he stared down at Ben Fort.

The guy had bloody scratches and scrapes running along his face and arms, but that wasn’t even close to the amount of damage Anthony wanted to do.

He’d been aiming that motorcycle at Lauren.

If the SOB had hurt her…

Paul came into the interrogation room, swept his gaze over Fort, then raised a brow as he looked back at Anthony.

“The guy fell off his bike,” Anthony said.

At his words, Fort jerked his head toward them. “Because you and that DA were in my way! You come to my house, and I didn’t even see no warrant and—”

“They didn’t need a warrant to come and tell you about your girlfriend’s murder.”

Fort’s mouth hung open. “Murder?” He gave a rough bark of laughter, one that held an uncertain edge. “What’re you talkin’ about?”

Paul took the seat across from Fort. Anthony was playing by the rules—this time—and letting the detective have a crack at the guy first. But he wasn’t about to leave the room. He would stick close to Fort until he got the answers he wanted.

Anthony leaned back against the two-way mirror—he knew Lauren was watching on the other side—and waited for his moment.

If the detective didn’t break the guy, Anthony would.

Paul opened up a manila file and pushed a crime scene picture toward Fort. “Do you recognize this woman?”

Fort peered forward. “Yeah, man, that’s—” He jumped to his feet even as the color drained from his face. “Fuck! What the fuck happened to Stacy?”

Anthony moved in an instant, grabbing the guy’s shoulder and shoving him back down in his seat.

“Stacy is your girlfriend, correct?” Paul asked quietly.

A rough nod. Fort’s fingers snaked out, edging toward the photo almost helplessly. “Her face…”

“Stacy Crawford told the marshal here…” Paul slanted a fast glance toward Anthony. “That the two of you were heading out of town last night.”

“Got a job in Jackson,” he mumbled. His eyes were on the photo. His shoulders slumped. “Her face.”

Paul’s eyes were on Fort’s face. “Why didn’t you report that your girlfriend was missing?”

“’Cause she wasn’t!” Spittle flew from his mouth.

“If you were supposed to leave with her—”

Fort slapped his hand over the picture, covering Stacy’s face. “She sent me a text. Told me that she had to pull an extra shift—wanted the cash since it was her last night. She told me that she would be late gettin’ in.”

“But she didn’t get in at all.”

Fort’s breath was coming in fast heaves. “When I got her text, I went out for some beers with friends. I got in and passed out. I’d just woken up when—”

“When you heard the marshal banging at the door?”

A nod.

Now Anthony spoke. “Do you always run when you hear a knock at your door?”

He hesitated, then slowly shook his head.

“Then I guess today was special, huh?” Paul asked as he pulled the photo from beneath Fort’s hand. “But not so special for her.”

* * *

Did you help the Butcher kill your girlfriend?

Lauren had watched hundreds of interrogations over the years. She knew all the tricks detectives used in order to get a suspect to confess. She’d seen men crumble in an instant, and she’d seen cold-blooded killers refuse to break after hours of questioning.

When she’d had Walker in the interrogation room, he hadn’t broken. He’d just sat there, smiling at her the whole time.

Fort was already sweating. Sometimes, the guilty sweated. They sweated plenty. Their eyes darted around the interrogation room—just like Fort’s were doing. Their fingers tapped on the table, their shoes kept up a steady pounding rhythm on the floor.

Again, just like Fort.

Nervousness? Fear? A guilty conscience?