Sharp ended the call. Lance set down his phone, stared at the motel room door and willed it to open so he could go home. But nothing happened.

Whatever he’d expected when he left the Scarlet Falls PD three months before, this wasn’t it. Through the fabric of his tactical cargo pants, Lance rubbed the thick scar tissue on his thigh where a bullet had ended his police career. His leg was almost healed. But almost wasn’t good enough. As much as he wanted to be on the force, he would not be responsible for another officer getting hurt because he couldn’t keep up.

After the first four weeks of unemployed boredom had nearly driven him insane, he’d latched onto Sharp’s offer to join his PI firm like a K-9 on a bite sleeve. For the last two months, he’d been Skywalker to Sharp’s Obi-Wan.

Lance shifted position, stretching his leg. If he was going to spend this many hours sitting in his vehicle, he was going to have to trade up to a larger model.

Headlights swept across the pavement, and a familiar Cadillac slid crookedly into a slot in front of the motel room. Lance’s spine jerked straight.

Was that Mrs. Brown?

The door of the Cadillac flew open and bounced on its hinges. Mrs. Brown slid from the vehicle and stood on wobbly legs. She staggered toward the door of the motel.

Oh, shit. Alcohol had never helped anyone make better decisions.

Lance bolted from his Jeep, but he was too far away to intercept her.

Mrs. Brown stopped ten feet in front of the door. She dug a handgun out of her purse, leveled it at the door of the motel, and pulled the trigger.

Boom. The gun jerked in her hand. Wood splintered. Lights turned on in windows across the low building.

And Lance’s heart did its best impression of a cardiac event. He skidded to a halt as Mrs. Brown fired again. Lance flinched, his body pouring sweat as he remembered last November’s shooting.

Get it together.

Now was not the time for a flashback.

He pulled his phone from his pocket, pressed 911, then gave the operator the address. His brain told him to return to his vehicle and wait for the police to arrive, but he couldn’t do it. This crappy little motel was on the edge of town. Scarlet Falls would have just a few cars out on graveyard patrol shift. Having one nearby was unlikely.

Mrs. Brown was angry and drunk, a deadly combination. God only knew who she might shoot before the police arrived.

Lance swallowed the throbbing pulse in his throat and forced himself to move forward.

“Mrs. Brown!” he called, nearly deafened by the hammering of his own heart. “Please put the gun down.”

“No,” she called over her shoulder. “I’m going to shoot his pecker off.” She refocused her aim—and her rage—back on the door and yelled, “Leonard, git your ass out here.”

As if Mr. Brown would come out after she’d announced her intention of blowing a hole in his privates. He was already probably trying to squeeze his beer gut out the bathroom window.

“Ma’am, you can’t shoot him.” Lance’s pulse echoed in his ears as he eased forward. The gun wasn’t pointed at him, but if she turned . . .

Mrs. Brown yelled, “Why not? The rat bastard is cheating on me.”

“I know,” Lance commiserated. “He’s a bastard. That’s why you’re going to divorce him, right?”

He took another step.

She paused. Her face tilted as she considered her original revenge plot.

“If you shoot him, you’ll be arrested.” Sliding another foot forward, Lance held his hands in front of his chest in a nonthreatening posture. “Then where will you be? Jail.”

The muzzle of the gun dropped a few inches.

“You want to get even, right?” He eased forward. “Wasn’t that your plan? To make him pay?”

She nodded, her eyes glistening with moisture. She sniffed. “He didn’t even bother to hide what he was doing. Everyone in town knows what he’s been up to.” Humiliation amplified the distress on her face.

Lance nodded. “He is an inconsiderate, lying scumbag. That’s why you’re dumping him. Everyone knows you won’t take this sort of behavior from him.” Lance played up her pride. “He’s going to be paying for what he did to you for a long time.”

Her lips flattened into a bloodless line as she imagined her revenge.

He jerked a thumb toward his Jeep. “I already have photos of both of them going into the motel. Soon you’ll be able to get him out of your life for good.”

“But I love him!” she wailed, her face crumpling.

For Pete’s sake . . .

How could she possibly still be in love with her cheating, lying, asshat of a husband?

“Mrs. Brown, lower the gun,” Lance said.

She complied, the muzzle of the gun pointing toward the blacktop.

In one swift motion, Lance took the gun from her. She burst into tears. He unloaded the weapon as she sobbed.

Once the threat was over, Lance took a deep breath. Adrenaline coursed through his veins like a hit of speed. At least as a cop he’d had backup and body armor. As a private investigator, he was on his own in a sea of crazy.

Speaking of crazy . . .

With Mrs. Brown disarmed and subdued, Lance waited for the SFPD. Ten minutes later, a sheriff’s deputy arrived instead, which wasn’t uncommon. With a limited number of cars on patrol, the local force relied on the county sheriff for backup.

Lance handed over Mrs. Brown’s weapon, gave a statement, and was free to go. As soon as he typed up his own report, he would be done with the Browns and their messy divorce. Love made people nuts.

His phone buzzed with a text from Sharp. STOP AT THE OFFICE.

Either Sharp had been listening to his police scanner or he’d gotten a call about the incident. He knew everybody in local law enforcement.

Lance drove to the tree-lined side street in Scarlet Falls where Sharp owned a duplex and lived in the unit above Sharp Investigations. At nearly one a.m., all was quiet in the very small business section of town. Lance parked at the curb and climbed the wooden steps. Sharp’s office occupied what was originally the living room of the converted two-bedroom apartment. Lance had set up camp in the first bedroom with a card table, a single chair, and a laptop. The sole personal item was a wireless speaker. He hooked the camera to the laptop and downloaded his pictures from earlier that evening.

“You really need to buy a desk.” Lance’s boss stood in the doorway. In worn jeans and a plain gray T-shirt, Sharp was wiry and ridiculously fit for his age. Twenty-five years on the police force had left him with an indelible don’t-fuck-with-me expression.

“The table works for now.” So far, Lance had refused to commit to a permanent position at Sharp Investigations. He wasn’t ready to give up his dream of getting back on the force. “Next time one of your family members requests an adultery surveillance, you’re on your own.”

Sharp ignored the comment. “We need to talk.”

“Yes, Mom.” Lance followed his boss into the small kitchen.

Sharp filled a teapot and put it on the stove. Then he filled one bowl with dog kibble and another with water, opened the back door, and deposited the bowls on the back porch.

“Still feeding that stray?”

“She won’t come in.” Sharp spooned tea into a wire basket and dropped it into a ceramic pot.

“She?” Lance teased.

Sharp pretended to be a total hard-ass, but it was a lame act.

“You’re a sucker for big brown eyes.” Lance led the way into Sharp’s office. Two chairs faced a beat-up desk. A black couch spanned the far wall.

Sharp carried a teapot in one hand and two mugs in the other. “You’ve had a tough night, so I’ll ignore your smart-assery.”

Lance eased himself into the straight chair. “You know, most men would offer a friend a glass of whiskey after a traumatic event.”

Sharp poured green tea into two mugs and set one in front of Lance. “Alcohol is a depressant. That’s the last thing you need right now.”

Sigh.

“Now that I can see for myself that you’re not dead, tell me what happened.” Sharp took his place behind the desk.

Lance filled him in. “Just a typical Friday night.”