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Stella set her phone on the hood of their SUV parked outside the soup kitchen where Otto Walker had volunteered. Her hand trembled slightly as she withdrew it, adrenaline still coursing through her veins.

Calls like this were the nightmare haunting every law enforcement family, the one her mother had lived through when her father was killed. Someday, her phone would ring, and a voice from the office—Slade or whoever her supervisor was at the time—would speak in that unmistakable low, carefully measured tone. “There’s been a shooting, and…”

The rest would dissolve into white noise, words falling into her brain unprocessed, unnecessary. The hole in her chest would tell her everything she needed to know before the sentence was even finished.

This time, Hagen was safe. The bullet missed him. But the cold, hollow feeling that had swept through her body when she first answered the call lingered like a ghost.

Hagen had called her himself. A single shot had hit no one. He was fine. So was Ander. Police were scouring the scene, and they were heading back to the office with security footage. He’d be home in time for dinner and a hug.

Now Stella understood how her mother felt every time her father pulled on his uniform and headed to work. Barbara Knox Rotenburg, too, had to have lived in fear of that phone call. Hell, she must continue to live in fear of that call because of Stella herself. The dread must’ve been a constant nagging concern at the back of her mind.

But her mother didn’t know the half of it. Stella knew the danger of responding to a callout or knocking on the door of a suspect. She knew all that. She’d felt it. And she knew the dangers Hagen faced each day, because she faced them too.

And that insider knowledge made the concern more solid, more real.

“You okay?” Stacy stared at her over the hood of the vehicle.

“Yep. Sorry.” Stella picked up her phone again. “That was Hagen. They were in the alley where the body was dumped. Someone shot at them.”

Stacy’s eyes widened. “They’re okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. Missed. Slade is there, and the police. Looks like the shooter got away, but they’re going to collect footage from security cameras now. They’ll go over them in the morning.”

“Right. Might not be related.” Stacy didn’t sound convinced.

“Possible, I guess. But Kerrick’s Alley isn’t exactly some hot spot for gun violence. I think the killer was setting a trap. He must’ve painted that cuneiform on the walls. Knew we’d respond and sat there, waiting.”

A chill ran down Stella’s back. Someone was pulling them around, putting them in position. Manipulating them. Exerting control over them.

The chill gave way to a hot rage. They were going to catch this killer, and they were going to do it now. They’d show him what control really meant. When they threw him into a cell and locked the door, he’d understand.

They needed to move faster.

She headed toward the soup kitchen. “Let’s go see what we can learn about Walker.”

They pulled open the door, and a wave of overheated air hit them, as thick and hot as gravy. It brought a rich smell of heavy stock and a clatter of pans and crockery.

The kitchen at the psychiatric hospital in Claymore Township carried a similar smell and noises, the atmosphere of a place that was more interested in filling bellies, and comfort foods were easy to prepare. There would be no menus there and few choices. Just food, served hot and free.

A long table had been laid out at one end of the room. A line of men—and the diners were mostly men—slouched forward, trays in hand. Behind the table, a couple of middle-aged women wearing hairnets and plastic gloves ladled out soup from a large pot. They spooned a dish of rice, sausage, and vegetables onto plates and waved the guests down, so they could help themselves to hunks of bread and a carrot cake topped with a thick layer of cream.

Stella was sure Hagen would’ve been horrified by the fare on offer, but the smell made her hungry.

A priest stood by the wall near the long table, talking to a man in a dirty, stained trench coat. Three overstuffed shopping bags hung in each of the man’s hands.

Father Ted had sandy hair, combed untidily from a side-parting. He was clean-shaven with pale, smooth skin, and was tall and thin so that when he spoke to the homeless man, he had to bend his back a little.

As Stella drew nearer, she could hear what he was saying. “Just head through this door, Enrique, and ask for Mariella. She’ll set you up with a bed for the night, okay?”

Enrique nodded vigorously and waited for the priest to open the door. His own hands were too full to do anything but hold his worldly possessions.

Stella brought out her ID and introduced them. “Do you have time to answer a few questions?”

“Of course.” Father Ted glanced at the badge, but his attention was on Enrique making his way down the passage toward the shelter. “Just turn left at the end. You got it.” He waved and lowered his voice. “We only have twelve beds. More than two thousand unhoused men and women in this city. And twelve beds. Wild. Come.”

He led them to a smaller table in the corner of the room and waited for them to sit. Stella’s chair legs scraped as she pulled her seat out.

“Coffee? Soup? I think it’s a casserole for dinner today. We’re dependent on donors for the menu. Whatever supermarkets and restaurants are willing to share. I think it’s chicken. Might not be.”

Stella brought out her notebook. “We’re good, thanks. I think your diners need it more than we do.”

Father Ted grinned widely. The tips of his teeth were slightly brown, the result of too much coffee and, Stella assumed, a long-running nicotine habit.

“There’s enough to go around. We don’t run out here. There’s always something we can offer. But these guys really pack it away. I’ve met teenage athletes who couldn’t finish off what these people can pile on a plate.”

Stacy looked over at the long table. “They seem to enjoy it. You get regulars here?”

“Some. When people become regular, we try to get them permanent help. So it’s mostly newcomers. We’ve become a first stop for people arriving in town. People running away and trying not to be found. It’s important to put out a welcome mat for the city’s newest arrivals, however poor they are.” Father Ted pressed his palms on the table. “So how can I help you?”

“Otto Walker. I understand he volunteered here.” For Stella, it was strange to see so many people in need and to know that a man who’d bled a man to death once volunteered to help them. She was reminded of Maureen King and her desire to “save” her victims.

“Oh, Otto. Of course.” Father Ted pushed back a lock of sandy hair. He’d been confident and at ease when he’d talked about the work the shelter was doing. Now the weight of the world seemed to drop onto his shoulders and darken his expression. “His uncle told me what happened. Such a terrible, terrible thing.”

“What was your impression of Otto?”

Father Ted sighed. “He was a nice kid. Helped out here a couple of times a week. Quiet. Painfully shy. A little troubled, I thought, when I first met him.”

“Troubled?” Stacy tilted her head. Stella could imagine Stacy as a psychologist, probing patients gently for details about their dreams. “In what way?”

“Otto lost both his parents when he was young. I’m sure you know that. You could see that loss in him. Sometimes, I thought his parents took a piece of him with them when they passed. He rarely showed much interest in life. Was never excited or passionate. Didn’t laugh. Very little made him happy.”

“That must’ve been difficult.”

“A little. I hoped his job would help, and the volunteer work he did here. Sometimes, helping others can be the best way to help yourself. I think it did.”

“Why do you say that?”

“’He just seemed to be coming out of his shell a little in the last few weeks. Behaved with a new kind of purpose. I don’t know what it was, since it wasn’t his job.”

Stacy looked surprised. “At the funeral parlor?”

“Yes. It was a gamble. I wasn’t sure the apprenticeship would work, but he took to it. You need the stomach for it. And Otto had that. But I’m not sure if that was the cause of his change of mood. Perhaps he was starting to understand the good he could do for bereaved families? But again, I don’t know what else could’ve caused the shift.”

Stella had some idea. Again, she thought of Maureen King.

“What about friends? Did he ever speak of them?”

A woman came in and patted Father Ted on the shoulder as she passed. “I found him a bed and gave him some clean clothes. He’s taking a hot shower now. I think he’s ready to sleep, poor thing.”

“Thank you, Mariella.” Father Ted patted the back of her hand, then returned his attention to Stella. “Friends? No. I don’t think so.”

“He never mentioned someone by the name of Patrick Marrion?”

Father Ted scrunched his nose. “No, I don’t remember Otto ever talking about someone named Patrick. Oh, now that I think about it, he did mention someone named Trevor though.”

“Trevor?” Stacy held her pen above her notebook. “Did you get a last name?”

“No. I don’t think they were friends for long. They met in some sort of online group, and this Trevor person mentioned he was coming down to Nashville. Otto got very excited. Sounded like he’d found a friend. I was happy for him.”

Coming to town. An online group. Maureen King had fallen down a rabbit hole online. Maybe she and Otto had fallen down the same one.

Stella’s eyes narrowed. “Did Trevor ever make it to Nashville?”

“I don’t know.”

“You never met him.”

“No. I’m sorry.”

“Dammit.” Stella glanced up at the priest. His expression hadn’t changed, but she needed to watch her language. “Sorry.”

“I hear much worse here.” Father Ted lifted his chin. “Although usually from people living on the streets.”

Stella hadn’t lived on the streets, but she’d spent a lot of time on them. She shrugged. “Thanks. You’ve been?—”

“Not much help, I’m sure.” Father Ted stood up. “But if you have any other questions, you know where to find me.”

Stella watched him go.

Trevor’s last name would’ve been handy. Still, a first name was a start.

They turned to go, and Stella spotted a familiar figure. Fett.