Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

T he bell over the door gave a rusty chime as Shane stepped into McPherson’s Pawn & Gun. The place reeked of cheap coffee, and the faint buzz of fluorescent lights set his nerves on edge. The store was cramped, the walls lined with glass cases full of pistols and revolvers, shelves of ammo stacked haphazardly in corners. Mounted animal heads stared down at him from above, their lifeless glass eyes somehow mocking his presence.

Behind the counter stood Dale McPherson, a wiry man in his forties with a salt-and-pepper mustache and a cigarette dangling from his lips. He glanced up as Shane entered.

“Morning,” Shane said, pulling out his badge and holding it up. “I’m Detective Weaver, here on official business. I need your records for all firearm sales over the last sixty days.”

McPherson didn’t move, didn’t even blink. His gaze flicked to the badge, then back to Shane’s face, a slow smirk curling his lips. He took the cigarette from his mouth and tapped the ash onto the floor before wedging it back between his teeth.

“Well, well. What a surprise. The Sheriff’s boys gracing my humble establishment,” he drawled, leaning on the counter. “What is it this time? Another witch hunt for one of those evil guns you’re always blaming for the world’s problems?”

Shane was already tired, already on edge from the morning meeting where Tuffin had strutted around like a rooster, bragging about getting the warrant for Timmons’ DNA pushed through. Now this. He exhaled sharply through his nose, struggling to keep his voice even. “This isn’t a debate, McPherson. Four people are dead, and the weapon used is still unaccounted for. I need those records. Now.”

McPherson snorted, shaking his head as he straightened up. “You lawmen are all the same. Come in here, throwing your weight around, acting like you own the damn place. Let me tell you something, Detective. This is America. You ever heard of the Second Amendment? You know, the one that says folks have the right to bear arms?”

Shane clenched his teeth, his patience slipping through his fingers like sand. “This isn’t about the Second Amendment. This is about doing your part to help solve a quadruple homicide. Four innocent people are dead, McPherson. I’m asking for your records because it’s my job to make sure the person responsible gets caught before anyone else gets hurt.”

McPherson barked out a laugh, the sound sharp and grating. “Oh, sure. And in the meantime, you’d love to shut me down, wouldn’t you? You and your kind, always looking for someone to blame. Let me tell you something, fancy boy—guns don’t kill people. People kill people. If some jackass takes one of my guns and uses it to shoot up a school or whatever, that’s on them, not me.”

Shane stepped closer to the counter, his voice dropping to a dangerous level. “You want to talk about responsibility? How about the fact that anyone with a pulse can walk into a shop like this and buy a gun in this state? No permits, no background checks, no nothing. And then when something goes wrong, people like you shrug your shoulders and say, ‘Not my problem.’”

McPherson’s face reddened, his mustache twitching. “If you don’t like the laws, take it up with your governor. He’s the one who made it legal for folks to carry a concealed weapon without a license. I don’t make the rules—I just follow them.”

Shane leaned in, his voice tight with barely contained anger. “The gun laws in this state are a joke, and you know it. That’s why we’ve got tragedies like Apalachee High School—two kids and two teachers gunned down because it’s easier to buy an AR-15 than it is to adopt a damn dog.”

McPherson’s hand slammed down on the counter, rattling the glass cases. “You don’t get to come in here and lecture me, boy! I’m running a business. A legal business. You think I’m happy about what happened at that school? You think I like hearing about kids getting shot? But don’t you dare stand there and act like it’s my fault. You want someone to blame, go look in the damn mirror.”

The words hit harder than Shane expected. For a moment, he said nothing, the weight of everything pressing down on him—the dead, the grieving families, the helplessness that came with knowing that the system was rigged against them.

He stepped back, straightening his shoulders.

“I’m not here to argue with you, McPherson,” he said, his voice cold and flat. “I’m here to do my job. Now, are you going to give me those records, or am I going to have to get a warrant?”

McPherson glared at him for a long moment, then turned to the computer with a muttered curse. The printer behind him whirred to life, spitting out page after page of sales records. When the last page printed, McPherson grabbed the stack, slammed it down on the counter, and shoved it toward Shane.

“There. Take your damn papers and get out of my store. ”

Shane picked up the stack, his jaw tight. “Thanks for your cooperation.” He turned and walked out, the bell above the door jangling behind him.

He climbed into his truck and tossed the papers onto the passenger seat, his chest heaving with suppressed anger. When he pulled out his phone to check his messages, the email notification was the final straw.

Weaver, this is not Taylor. It’s Sam. Taylor had a relapse and is in the hospital recovering. Read this carefully: SHE IS OFF THE CASE. Don’t email her. Don’t call her. Don’t text her. Let her rest until she comes back to work.

Signed, HER HUSBAND!

Shane’s hand slammed down on the steering wheel, the sharp sting of pain barely registering. “Damn it, Sam!” he shouted. “You don’t know her like I do.”

He sat there for a moment, breathing heavily, his thoughts a jumbled mess of frustration and worry. Taylor’s relapse wasn’t because of the case. It was due to her family, her bloodsucking sisters and the weight of their constant demands.

Sam didn’t see that. He didn’t understand. He hadn’t been around long enough to know how they all did her.

Shane started the truck and peeled out of the gun store parking lot, his hands gripping the wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white. At first, he didn’t know where he was going, but the pull was magnetic, irresistible.

He had to see her.

When he pulled into the hospital parking lot and saw Sam’s truck, his jaw clenched, his hands resting on the steering wheel as he stared at the doors.

Damn it.

Shane wouldn’t go in there today. But he’d be back.