Bullets & Bonfires by Autumn Jones Lake
Detach.
Facts.
“Dad says she hit her face on a dresser last night when she was jumping on the bed. Didn’t bring her in until this afternoon. Claims his mom is a nurse and he took her there instead.”
Jesus. I need a second to process the information. Who the fuck smashes a four-year-old in the face? Why?
Stupid question.
I’ve been doing this long enough to know I’ll never receive an answer that makes sense.
Brady speaks up first. “You suspect the dad?”
Linda hesitates. “Well, when he left the room, I asked her if anyone hurt her and she said ‘Daddy did it.’”
Not all that compelling. Children that age are notoriously unreliable witnesses.
Brady opens the door and steps into the hallway, but Linda blocks my exit. “So are you and the little princess together now?” she asks.
“Seriously? We have an injured child and you’re playing jealous ex?” I growl out each word and brush past her.
“Does Vince know?” she persists, following me into the hallway.
Is she really doing this now? “Mind your own business.”
“That’s a no. Well, call me when he kicks your ass. I’ll patch you up.”
Brady hides his smirk behind his hand.
Their cavalier behavior is the result of too much detachment. You see enough of this shit and after a while you’re not trying to help people anymore, you’re just trying to make it through your shift.
Linda leads us down the long hallway. At the end, a large, angry, tired-looking young woman sits on a chair outside the last room on the left. The little boy in her lap keeps struggling and squirming to break loose.
“Dad’s live-in girlfriend,” Linda mutters. “And the patient’s half-brother.”
“Bio-mom?” Brady asks.
Linda shakes her head.
I stop and jot down a few notes and when I’m finished, Linda pushes the door open and holds it for Brady and me. A dark-haired little girl shrinks back against the white hospital bed. The young man standing next to her jerks his head in our direction, his mouth opening but no words coming out. He barely looks old enough to drive but has a four-year-old daughter.
A clear picture of what happened forms in my head.
“You called the cops?” he asks Linda, who snuck into the room behind me.
“It’s standard procedure,” she replies, completely unruffled. “Deputy Hollister and Deputy O’Connor, this is Allison’s father.”
We’re running out of room in here, so Linda ducks outside. I approach the bed slowly and use a lowered voice. “Hey, little miss, you must be Allison?”
The girl slowly lifts her head, and I swallow hard. Struggle to keep my face an expressionless mask while I mentally catalog her injuries. Bruising around her swollen-shut left eye. A cut directly below that was bad enough to require stitches. My jaw clenches and I exhale slowly through my nose to calm myself and not scare her.
No child should suffer an injury at the hands of a person whose duty was to protect them.
Dad stands there, gaze skipping from Brady to me.
Outside the room, a shriek echoes down the hallway. “That your little brother out there, Allison?” I ask.
She shakes her head in response and her dad sighs. “He’s her half-brother. Mine and Nancy’s son.”
“That’s Nancy out there?”
“Yeah.”
“Where’s Allison’s mother?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. Probably some crack house.”
Wonderful. Perfect thing to say in front of your daughter, asshole.
Brady and I exchange a silent look. He doesn’t have to say a word. We’re both thinking the same thing. A side effect of working many long hours together over the last few years.
“Allison has a speech delay, so I don’t know what you think she can tell you,” Dad says.
“Do you go to school, Allison?” I ask.
She shakes her head and glances up at her father, but doesn’t seem to be afraid of him.
“Excuse us for a second, Mr. Davis.” Brady and I step outside the room, leaving the door open.
Nancy marches over as soon as she spots us, attitude and defiance written all over her face.
“I need to get my son home,” she snaps.
I point her in the direction of a quieter location that’s still in plain sight. “I understand. Can you tell me what happened?” I ask in my calmest, most reasonable tone.
“Well, Allie’s real rambunctious,” she hedges, eyes darting around, never actually looking at me. “She was jumping on the bed. I heard a thump and then she started crying.”
“Where were you when this happened?”
“She ain’t my kid. I have enough to do watching my own son.” She jerks her head toward the little boy who’s now showing Brady his stuffed dinosaur.
I pause to calm myself before asking the same question in a different way.
“Were you in the bedroom with her when it happened?”
“No. I was in the living room.”
“Where was Mr. Davis?
“The bathroom. The door was closed. But that’s where he was,” she insists. Obviously someone already questioned her version of the story.
“Why didn’t you take Allison to the doctor last night?”
“His mother used to be an ER nurse. We thought she could treat Allison and not have to drag her down to the hospital. Then this morning, it looked so much worse that she forced us to at least take Allison here.”
My radar’s pinging like crazy. Sure, these are two stupid kids playing house. Unfortunately, they have children themselves. The way Nancy went out of her way to distance herself from both the girl and the incident bugs the hell out of me.
Overtaxed young mother.
Caring for someone else’s daughter.
It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to piece together what could have happened. I’m trying to keep an open mind. Not jump to the most cynical, jaded conclusion here.
Brady and I offer Nancy a ride home. In a hurry to leave, she accepts. The entire way home, she coos and fawns over her son. To someone else it might seem sweet, but it gives me the creeps.
Or maybe I’m just pissed that she didn’t bother to say goodbye to Allison.
Stay objective.
My memory flashes back to Bree when she was little. No more than eight or nine. Red tear-stained cheeks and bruises circling her upper arms when one of her mom’s boyfriends got carried away with the discipline aspect of parenting.
Shit. How did I forget that?
My father drove right over to the Avery house and had a not-so-friendly chat with the boyfriend.
Bree’s mom didn’t appreciate the interference. Vince and Bree stayed over at our house a lot until that boyfriend finally left for good.
Brady elbows me and points out the turn up ahead. Shoving those memories back to the past isn’t as easy as I’d like.
The house is so far out by the county line, jurisdiction may end up being a question.
“Do you mind if we come in and take a look at the dresser she hit her head on?” Brady asks.
I quirk an eyebrow at the request but don’t say anything.
“Uh, well the house is kind of a mess. But sure.”
“We can do it later,” Brady says, even though he’s already halfway out of the car. As if he isn’t as eager as I am to look at the scene before Nancy has a chance to clean it up.
“No. No. It’s fine,” she says, waving us inside.
Messy turns out to be an understatement. The house reeks of hell only knows what. Dirty dishes, laundry, diapers. Take your pick. The filth invades every inch of the house.
Nancy kicks toys, garbage, and assorted junk out of the way to lead us into the bedroom where Allison supposedly hit her head.
Only a grungy, faded pink comforter carelessly tossed over the bed indicates the room belongs to a little girl. White particleboard makes up
I glance around the filthy, cluttered room. Plenty of things for a little girl to hurt herself on. A metal chair with rusted edges, wire hangers strewn all over the floor, a pair of scissors. She would have encountered any one of those items before the dresser.
“What made you so sure she hit her head on the dresser?” I ask.
Nancy shrugs. “She said so.”
I lead her back into the living room, while Brady whips out his phone to grab a few pictures of the room. No doubt CPS will be called in here next, but just in case things are disturbed before then we’ll have a record.
I almost step on something hard and plastic in the hallway. Bending down, I see it’s an old, cordless handheld phone. The perfect circle of the earpiece looks awfully similar to the perfectly circular bruising around Allison’s eye.
Slapping my hand against my chest, I let out a few phony-as-fuck coughs. “Nancy, would you mind getting me a glass of water?”
“Uh, sure.”
The minute she turns her back, I take out my phone and snap a few pictures of my own.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Hours have gone by since Liam left the house.
After we made love for the first time.
He didn’t ditch me. It was work. I understand that.
I do.
My stomach rumbles, leading me into the kitchen, humming a mindless tune. Kimber follows behind me, silently begging for treats with the power of her soulful eyes. The limited diet instruction is so not her jam.
Liam didn’t give me any details about why he got called in. His pinched expression spoke volumes, though. His job has to drain him at times.
Can I be the girlfriend of a sheriff?
The wife?
Whoa. Slow your roll, girl.
One romp does not equal wedding bells.
Besides, aren’t I always saying I don’t believe in marriage? Isn’t that what I told my friends at school when they asked when Chad and I were getting married?
It was a lie.
I want all those things. I convinced myself I didn’t because I think, deep down, I knew Chad was wrong for me.
Why didn’t I leave sooner?
I stop and think of something positive. Count the good things in my life. Something I learned in my group counseling sessions.
I end up eating alone and putting the rest of dinner away for Liam, even though the expression on Kimber’s face clearly says she’d be happy to finish it.
Except for taking Kimber outside a couple times, I stay indoors.
I peek out the front door and notice a Sheriff’s car cruising by the house. My heart speeds up, thinking it might be Liam stopping in for a quick hello.
But it’s not.
When the same sheriff drives by an hour later, I know Liam’s thinking of me. Must have asked one of the guys he works with to check on me.
A little while later I send him a text to say thank you.
But he doesn’t respond.
We were on the same page about our relationship, right?
Stop. I am not some needy, clingy woman who falls to pieces if her boyfriend doesn’t check in every fifteen minutes. Liam has an important, demanding job.
Unease settles over me.
What if something happened to him?
Who would think to let me know?
I could call his parents, but it seems shitty to worry them for no reason.
Except, now I can’t stop thinking about all the awful possibilities.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Being separated from Bree for so long annoys me no end. But my job doesn’t always have regular hours, something I know she understands and I hope she’ll forgive.
Endless reports, interviews, more reports, reviewing medical records, accompanying a social worker to the hospital and then the residence.
Yeah, it was a long night.
Bone-weary, I finally clomp up the front steps only to find a solitary lamp lighting up the entryway.
My stomach tightens in disappointment, but I’m not surprised. It has to be close to five in the morning. I wouldn’t want Bree to wait up for me.
The door to the bedroom is wide open, inviting me in. Bree’s sprawled out on her stomach, her face half under her pillow. My lips twitch into a smile. She’d slept that exact same way as a kid. Drove my mom nuts because she worried Bree would smother herself.
I don’t want to disturb her, and I figure she should be up in a few hours. I need to decompress anyway, so I strip down to a T-shirt and shorts, flick on the television, and stretch out on the couch.
Even though my plan was to wait for Bree to wake up, sleep comes swift and solid.
The same house surrounds me. The way it looked ten years ago. Faded, peeling wallpaper, rotted carpet, smoke-stench clinging to everything.
More garbage litters the floor than I remember. Walking through the rooms, they distort and morph into the house I investigated earlier.
Somewhere in the back of the house Brianna’s crying.
No matter how many times I push garbage and debris out of my way, I can’t reach her. I call out for Brady, but my voice won’t carry over the mountains of stuff piled throughout the house.
Sounds of flesh on flesh reach my ears. Someone being hurt. Smacked. Punched. Hard.
Dread curls in my gut.
Did Chad find Brianna?
“Liam,” she calls softly, sounding so far away.
“I’m here, baby girl.” I can’t make my mouth work, and the words just stick in my throat.
“Liam.” This time her voice is sharper and cuts through the fog. Soft hands press into my shoulder. “Wake up.”
“Huh?” I turn and almost fall off the edge of the couch. The filth is gone. I’m staring at gleaming hardwood floors and Brianna’s feet.
“Why are you out here?” she demands.
“What?” I scrub my hands over my face, sit up, and try to make sense of my world.
“You were having a bad dream.” The couch dips as she sits next to me, running her hand over my back.
I blink a few times and glance around the living room, then over at Bree. “Are you okay?”
She huffs out a laugh. The sweetest fucking sound in the world after the night I just had. “I’m fine. Worried as hell about you. Bad night?”
Intense relief pulses through me. I pull her into my arms, crushing her against my chest. She wraps her arms around me, hugging just as fiercely.
“I was worried about you,” she mumbles into my shirt.
“Yes, it was a bad night,” I finally answer her question.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No. I don’t want that ugliness touching you.”
Her hand stops moving over my back.
“I can’t talk about an ongoing-investigation with you anyway, sweetheart.”
“Oh.”
“What time is it?”
“A little after eight.”
I turn my gaze on her, taking in the tight workout pants that end right below her knees and the baggy shirt—one of my sheriff department T-shirts.
“Damn, you look good in that.”
One corner of her mouth quirks up. “You don’t mind?”
“Hell no.”
“I was going to go to one of Sully’s morning classes,” she explains, gesturing to the outfit.
A prick of jealousy pokes at me, but I push it back.
“That’s good.”
She turns her head away but not before I notice the way her bottom lip trembles. “I can stay…if you want me to?”
The shy way she asks says she’s afraid I’ll tell her no. “Is there another class today? I really do want you to go. But I also want to be selfish.”
“You do?”
I brush her hair out of her face so I can see her better. “Look at me.”
She runs her fingers over my cheek. “I missed you too. I tried waiting up for you, but…”
“I’m sorry. I should’ve called. I got your text so late, I didn’t want to write back and wake you up.”
“You had one of the guys check on me, didn’t you?” she asks.
“Sure did. He didn’t bother you did he?”
“No. Not at all. I just noticed the same patrol car go by more than once.” She stands and holds her hands out to me. “Come on. You should lie down in the bedroom and get some more sleep. What time did you get home?”
The way she’s standing there beckoning me to the bedroom is way too sexy to resist. I take her hands and yank her into my lap. I fall back against the couch and guide her until she’s straddling me. “Five.”
She opens her mouth, but I place my hand at the back of her head and pull her in for a kiss. My other hand slides up under the back of her shirt.
“You look hot in this, but I need it off,” I say, tugging the shirt up. She lifts her arms and I slip it off and send it sailing across the room.
“Christ, you’re perfect.” My hands go to her breasts, encased in a neon-green sports bra that somehow pushes her tits up and keeps them in place. “This is sexy.” My hands fumble at the back, seeking a clasp. “How the fuck do I get it off?”
She chuckles and points to the front where there’s a small black zipper. “Oh,” I say, working it down. “I was too busy admiring these.” The bra comes off, and I fill my hands with her bare breasts.
“I did not spend enough time here,” I warn her right before sucking one hard nipple into my mouth.
“Oh, fuck.” She gasps and squirms against me.
“In a minute.” I grab her other nipple, drawing it into my mouth and lashing it with my tongue. Turns out, I can’t wait another minute. “Hold on to me.”
She mumbles out a questioning sound, but I’m too busy throwing the blankets down, then wrapping my arms around her and taking us both to the floor. We’re both franticly ripping at each other’s clothes. Her sneakers get in the way of me stripping her pants off, and I don’t have the patience to fuck around. Urging her to turn over, I squeeze her hip. “Stick your ass up in the air for me.”