Chapman didn't have a chance to react. His lips parted in a silent protest, but before he could utter a cry Henry had pushed him back into the house.

I was just a step behind them. I quickly shut the door behind us, silently praying Juliet would arrive soon.

It didn't look like Henry was going to back down.

"Where the hell is my son?" he shouted this time, backing Chapman into the wall. I could see the gun trembling slightly in his hand, but his eyes were nothing but ice.

For only the third time in my life, I was truly petrified of him, convinced to my soul he was about to kill.

"I don't know what you're talking about!" Chapman stammered.

All the blood had drained from his face and his knees were quaking so badly he could barely stand up. Henry had pressed the gun to his forehead again, the barrel leaving a small, circular indentation in his flesh.

"Where the hell is my son?" Henry shouted again when Chapman proved to be too terrified to respond.

"I don't know anything about any kid!" he protested finally, looking over at me with wild, desperate eyes. "I swear! What the hell are you talking about?"

When I saw the twisted look of complete helplessness and utter terror etched across his face, there suddenly wasn't a doubt in my mind that he was telling the truth.

If he had any idea what we wanted, he would have given it to us in a heartbeat.

I could tell by the sudden flash in Henry's eye that he saw it, too, but he wasn't giving up on Chapman that easily. He was our only lead. It had to be him.

Henry wanted it to be him.

His finger grazed the trigger, his entire body tensing like a coiled spring about to release. "Damn it! You know what I'm talking about!" he shouted. "You ran my son over with your damn car!"

"I did what?" Chapman stammered, trying to step back away from the gun. He had no where to go, however. He hit the wall that was directly behind him, tripping over his own foot and landing on the floor, still staring up at the gun with wide, terrified eyes. Henry stared unblinkingly down at him, not ready to relinquish the weapon or his vengeance just yet. "When? What the hell are you talking about?"

"Last night!" Henry snapped. "He was going to prove you burned down the minimart so you ran him down and dumped his body somewhere! I want to know where!"

"Last night?" Chapman stuttered, raising his hands in the air. "But I haven't even gone anywhere in a few days! Check my car! The engine's stone cold! It's in the garage…I haven't been anywhere since the minimart burned down. Where am I going to go? I don't have a job now! I don't know what the hell you're talking about!"

Henry's grip on the gun tightened. I could read every emotion, every thought, that was running through his mind.

He didn't want to check the garage. He already knew Chapman was telling the truth. His car was there, the engine was cold, and there wasn't any body damage.

And Chapman couldn't have stolen a car to hit Shawn, because he couldn't have planned the crime that far in advance.

Our only lead was officially dead.

But if our lead was dead, it meant we were no closer to finding Shawn than we had been five hours ago.

Which meant we had just wasted five hours that could have been the difference between finding Shawn alive and finding him dead.

Which meant our lead couldn't be dead.

Which meant Chapman had to be our guy.

There just wasn't any other choice.

Henry slowly lowered the gun, finally blinking.

"Henry," I said quietly, stepping towards him. "You know Juliet's on her way. You're going to have a lot of explaining to do if she finds you here threatening her chief suspect."

Henry didn't move. He was frozen in place, still glaring at the cowering man on the floor in front of him. I reached out and grabbed his shoulder. His head snapped around, his eyes narrowing at me now.

"He didn't do it," I told him. "Look at him. You know he didn't do it."

From the floor, Chapman nodded fervently, the color slowly starting to return to his face. "I didn't hit anyone with a car! I swear! I don't know--"

But Henry didn't wait for him to finish. He shook my hand off him violently and spun on his heel, marching out of the hallway towards the front door. I heard the door slam behind him as he left the house.

He was already at the car by the time I caught up with him. We both climbed in silently, for a long moment just sitting and staring out the window.

He dropped the gun he was still clutching on the floor.

"It wasn't him, Gus," he said quietly. "It wasn't him."

"I know."

He looked back up at me, but didn't say anything else.

He didn't have to.

We were both thinking the same thing.

We were back to square negative one.