...A figure stood there, a man, his back turned to me. He stood among the ravaged living room. “Don’t move,” I said. “Turn around, hands up.”

He moved slowly, and I tensed, waiting. He raised his hands as he did. He was tall, and muscular, his jet-black hair layered back over his ears, his eyes gray and sharp. He was an attractive man, not much older than my own twenty-seven years. He was actually smiling.

“Good evening, Detective Hubbard. It is a delight to finally meet you.”

“Where’s Sandra Monkton?” I barked.

He shrugged. “You tell me and we’ll both know.”

“What have you done to her?”

“Nothing.” He shook his head. “It looks like we’re both here for the same reason. I knew eventually our paths would cross.”

“Put your hands on the back of your head and hit the floor.”

“Really? Is all this necessary?”

I took out my phone.

“I wouldn’t do that,” he cautioned, raising his hands and folding them together on his head. “Why don’t you wait to hear me out before you call anyone? Give me a few minutes, please? I’m not armed.”

I closed the door behind me, jumped forward. “Down.” I motioned.

He sighed but dropped down to the floor.

“On your stomach. Keep your hands where they are.”

I waited for him to cooperate, then cautiously I moved forward and hastily patted him down.

“This could be kinky if you’d slow down a bit.”

“Get up,” I told him, ignoring his comment. “Slowly.” I grabbed his arm and dragged him around the place while I checked each room. No sign of the woman, but there had definitely been some sort of a struggle in the living room. “Now,” I pulled him back into the living room, “sit down.” I gave him a push toward the sofa and he landed on it hard.

“A little pushy, but I like fire in my men.”

“Stop the bullshit. Who are you and what are you doing here?”

“My name is Conway.”

“Conway, last name, or first?”

“Last and first actually.” He smiled. “My parents lacked imagination.”

“Stop fucking around.” I moved closer with the pistol. “How do you know Sandra Monkton? What do you want with her?”

“I don’t know Sandra Monkton, but he does.”

I paused, narrowed my eyes. “Who is he?”

“The one we’re both looking for.”

“Are you a cop?”

He contemplated that. “You could say that.”

“Who do you work for?”

“No one you’d know.”

“I know all branches of law enforcement. It’s easy to check.”

“Not really.” He smiled. “Ryan,” he sobered, “you’re in danger now. You’re too close. You need to back off and let me handle this before someone gets hurt.”

“It’s Hubbard, Detective Hubbard.” The way he’d said my first name sounded a little too familiar, like we’d just spent three days together in some cheesy motel.

“Sorry, it feels like I know you, or I should know you. I’d like to know you.” He smiled again.

“Listen, you’re going to start giving me some answers or I’m hauling your ass down to the station.”

“That would be a bad idea.” He sobered.

I reached for him; he put up his hand. “Wait. Okay, we’ll talk.”

I perched on the edge of the sofa, my gun aimed on him.

“We’re on the same side. We both want to stop the killing.”

“Then you know who the killer is?”

“Yes, I know who it is. He’s a renegade and he will be punished, but not by you.”

“You’re a vigilante.”