The children didn’t miss their biological father the way Morgan did. Only her oldest, at age seven, had even the faintest memory of him. Morgan was glad her kids were happy. The thought of them not remembering their father made her sad, but she kept it to herself.

Lance let his fingertips slide down her arms until he was holding her hands. “We’re getting married in just over two weeks. We don’t have time for a long and complicated case.”

“No, we don’t.” Morgan put aside her morning meeting. She deserved to enjoy every moment of pre-wedding excitement. “Now tell me where we’re going for our honeymoon. I need to pack.”

“It will be warm.” Lance laughed. “And that’s all I’m telling you. The rest is a surprise.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Your sister will make sure you are adequately prepared.” Lance’s smile turned smug.

Before Morgan could protest about their secret honeymoon destination, the sharp, unmistakable sound of a gunshot came through the open window.

Chapter Four

The gunshot sent Lance’s hand to his sidearm. Pulling the weapon was a reflex. Tucking Morgan behind him was just as automatic. His brain knew she didn’t require his protection, but his heart didn’t care.

Morgan dropped to one knee and ducked her head below the level of the countertop, her own gun in her hand. She whispered, “Could you tell where the shot came from?”

Lance shook his head, duckwalked to the window, and peered over the ledge. The small rear yard appeared empty and quiet. Reaching up, he closed and locked the window. Then he turned and jogged in a crouch out of the kitchen and into the hallway. Morgan was right behind him.

“Sharp!” Lance called.

“In here.” Sharp’s voice came from his office. Lance and Morgan slipped into the room. The original living room of the duplex, Sharp’s office had a large window that overlooked the street. Lance’s boss, PI Sharp, was peering around the window frame, gun in hand, his lean face grim. As a result of a strict exercise regimen, a green and crunchy lifestyle, and pure stubbornness, the fifty-three-year-old retired police officer was in better shape than most college kids.

“Could you tell where it came from?” Lance asked.

“Out there.” Sharp nodded toward the street. “See anyone out back?”

“No.” Lance angled his body on the opposite side of the window. The tree-lined street was empty. “Have you seen anyone?”

“All I see is that van parked across the street in front of the accounting firm.”

Lance focused on the white minivan parked at the curb. Sunlight reflected off the windows. “I can’t see if anyone is inside the vehicle.”

“Should I call 911?” Morgan asked. “Are we sure it wasn’t a car backfiring?”

Sharp’s lean face creased. “Sounded like a gunshot to me, but it’s possible.” He headed for the door. “Let’s check it out.”

Lance followed Sharp. Looking over his shoulder at Morgan, he said, “Stay here and keep watch. Someone needs to be able to call the police.”

She nodded and took a position at the edge of the window.

In the hall, Sharp turned toward the back of the house. “We’ll go out the back door and circle around.”

In case there was a shooter outside, they wouldn’t want to walk out the front door.

They went into the kitchen. Lance checked the rear yard. Still empty. He moved into position behind his boss. Lance’s pulse throbbed in his throat as Sharp slipped out the door. They crept across the back porch and jumped over the railing into the side yard. Moving quickly, they jogged in the shadow of the house to the front corner.

Shoulder to shoulder, they pressed their backs against the siding.

Sharp peered around the corner. “Looks clear.”

“I’ll cross to the tree at the curb.”

Sharp nodded, stepping into position to provide cover.

Lance darted around a low trimmed shrub and then ran in a crouch across the front yard. He stopped at the oak tree, pressing his back into the bark and scanning the street in both directions. He listened intently, but adrenaline—and the echo of his own heartbeat—drowned out most external noise.

His gaze fell on the minivan parked on the opposite side of the street. The sun’s reflection turned the windows into mirrors. Lance looked back at Sharp, then motioned toward the minivan. Sharp tapped his own chest and pointed toward the tree. Lance waited for Sharp to cross the lawn and join him at the tree before jogging across the blacktop. He circled the van, angling off onto the lawn of the accountant’s office.

From his position, the sun no longer bounced off the vehicle windows, and Lance had a clear view inside. A figure was slumped over the steering wheel.

He moved closer, peering into the front and back seats. Rounding the rear of the van, he cupped one hand over his eyes and looked through the tinted glass. The cargo area was empty.

Lance headed for the front of the minivan. His initial inspection had concentrated on looking for threats. Now that he knew the rest of the vehicle was clear, he turned his attention back to the driver.

Even after hearing the gunshot, the sight still shocked him.

The inside of the driver’s window and front corner of the windshield were splattered with blood and gore. Lance moved around to the passenger-side window for an unobstructed view.

It was the woman who had just left Morgan’s office. There was a hole in her temple, just above her right ear. Her right arm lay on the seat next to her thigh. Her open fingers extended just beyond the seat of the van. On the floor was a Glock 43.

“GSW. Call 911.” Using the hem of his T-shirt, Lance tried the vehicle door. Locked. He ran around to the driver’s side. Also locked. The windows were all closed.

Sharp jogged across the street, his phone pressed to his ear. He gave the dispatcher the address, then held the phone away from his face. “Could she still be alive?”

“Doubt it.” But the possibility, even if it was a long shot, trumped preservation of evidence. Lance turned his gun in his hand and used the butt end to break the driver’s side window. Reaching inside the vehicle, he pressed two fingers to the woman’s neck. “She’s dead.”

Sharp relayed the information on the phone, then turned and walked a few feet away.

Lance holstered his gun, took his phone out of his pocket, and began taking pictures. If questions arose regarding the death, he wanted his own records. The police didn’t always want to share, and once law enforcement arrived, the vehicle would be off-limits.

Crouching, he squinted at the spatter of gore on the inside of the windows. Along with blood, bits of bone and brain matter were stuck to the glass. Lance bent lower to get a better view of her face and head. Her eyes were open and empty. He checked the passenger-side windows but saw no sign that a bullet had been fired into the vehicle.

On the passenger seat, a brown purse sat open. The Glock 43 on the floor was a lightweight, compact 9mm—a solid choice for concealed carry. Had the woman taken her handgun from her purse?

Lance went cold from the inside out. Mrs. Olander had likely been carrying that gun during her meeting with Morgan. A shoe scraped on the pavement behind him. He turned to see Morgan standing a few feet away. She rubbed her arms. Her slim gray skirt and silk blouse offered little protection against the morning chill. Her long black hair was coiled at the nape of her neck.