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“No,” I said. “You shouldn’t have known we were here.”

His gaze met mine.

“I saw the vehicles.”

“You saw Sheriff Tate’s SUV, Trigger’s truck, and Mace’s truck in the driveway. That told you people were here. It didn’t tell you we were searching boxes.”

“It was obvious when I walked in.”

“You also knew about the box on Main Street.”

“I heard about it.”

“From someone you can’t name.”

He reached for the doorknob.

Sheriff Tate blocked him. “Show me your boots.”

Evan looked down. “What?”

“There’s a print beside my garage.”

“I’ve been here before.”

“Recently?”

“No.”

“Then show us the soles.”

Evan laughed, but the sound was strained. “You can’t be serious.”

Sheriff Tate didn’t move.

Evan looked at me. “Do I have to?”

“Not without a warrant,” I said. “But refusing will be included in my notes.”

“You’re a Dallas detective. You don’t have jurisdiction here.”

“No, but Sheriff Tate does.”

The two men stared at each other.

Finally, Evan lifted his right foot and angled the sole toward us.

The tread was made of thick rectangular blocks divided by narrow grooves.

The partial print beside the garage had been damaged and incomplete. I couldn’t make a definitive comparison without photographs and measurements.

But the size was right.

The pattern might be too.

Evan lowered his foot. “Satisfied?”

“Not even close,” I said.