Page 33 of Graveyard Dog

Carson motioned them into the kitchen. She had brought in a whole team. They were checking Izzy’s apartment like it was a bona fide crime scene. Fingerprint analysis. DNA analysis.Threat analysis. Michael had no idea it would become such a big deal, but he was grateful.

Carson pointed to the broken handle from that morning. “I don’t know what happened with the oven door, but we took fingerprints just in case.”

Izzy choked on air and ended up coughing for several seconds. “No,” she said between coughs. “That’s been broken for a while. It just falls off every so often.”

“Yeah, I keep meaning to fix that,” Michael said, toeing it with his boot.

Izzy nodded her confirmation. “He’s just been so busy, what with…busy season and all.”

Michael elbowed her softly. She coughed again.

“Okay, then.” Carson turned and surveyed the forensics team. “They’ll need your fingerprints to exclude you from the investigation, but there’s a lot going on here.”

“A lot?” Izzy asked, her voice an octave higher than usual.

Carson turned back to them. “Would you two like to sit down?”

Damn it. This was going to be worse than he imagined.

“Sit down?” Izzy asked.

Michael led her to the small kitchen table, easing her around an agent taking photos of a boot print. Probably his.

Carson sat, as well. “Ms. Walsh, you said your ex doesn’t know anything about your daughter?”

The shrug she offered was born of helplessness, a situation she couldn’t fathom. Michael didn’t like it. “I didn’t think so,” she said, her mind racing to figure out what was going on. “I had no idea he’d found me. Us. But none of this seems like something Ross would do. He’s just not that…meticulous.”

“Meticulous is the right word.” Carson pointed to an evidence bag filled with apples. “For starters, your fruit and acouple of other items in your refrigerator have been covered with peanut oil. I take it the strawberry milk is Emma’s?”

Izzy nodded and paled before Michael’s eyes. Her chest began to rise and fall with quick, shallow gasps. Her dusky irises shimmered with unspent tears.

“Do you have an allergy, as well?”

“No,” she said, dumbfounded. She glanced around the room, surely wondering what else he’d tampered with. “Not at all. Why? Why would he do this? Is he trying to kill my daughter?”

“Maybe not,” Michael said. “Remember, he had someone waiting at the hospital. Maybe his plan was to abduct her after all.”

She looked at him, her gaze filled with realization. “That makes sense. If he found out about her, he would try to use her to control me. It’s his MO.”

“We’ve checked most things in the kitchen, but I would throw out anything that can be tampered with. Though it does seem he only targeted perishables. He probably wanted this to happen fairly quickly.” Carson looked at Michael. “That means he’s been nearby, keeping watch, waiting for his opportunity.”

Michael couldn’t agree more. “Can you check the cameras in the area?”

“Already on it,” Carson said. “But I’ll expand the radius. Check convenience stores and the like.”

“Thanks.” He turned back to Izzy just as a knock sounded at the door.

One of the agents opened it, then held out his arms to block the man’s path. But not much could stop Donovan St. James.

“Donny,” Michael said, rising to avoid a conflict as the man pushed his way in.

Donovan nodded a greeting to him, then turned his attention back to the young agent.

The kid took a step back, one shoulder raised protectively as if he thought Donovan might hit him.

“He’s with me,” Michael said hurriedly, showing his palms to the kid. Then he held out a hand to his oldest and dearest friend and dragged him farther inside. “Thanks for coming.”

Looking as scruffy as ever, the former president of the New Mexico chapter of the Bandits Motorcycle Club took his hand in a firm shake before his gaze slid to the woman sitting at the kitchen table. Then he turned back.

---