Total pages in book: 150
Estimated words: 146034 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 730(@200wpm)___ 584(@250wpm)___ 487(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 146034 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 730(@200wpm)___ 584(@250wpm)___ 487(@300wpm)
The thirst for blood might have been foreign, but somehow, it seemed undeniably right.
I might have fallen out of love with Brianna, but that didn’t mean her death hadn’t ripped me open wide. I’d failed her. Failed my kids because I hadn’t protected her. And I wouldn’t fail them in this.
I nudged at the stack of glossy photos, spreading them out so I could see each one.
Blood.
So much fucking blood.
I swallowed down the sickness and forced myself to dig through, riffling through for any evidence that might have been missed.
Studying.
Hunting.
Searching for anything that had been overlooked.
It was protocol that I hadn’t been allowed on the case. A conflict of interest. Worry that emotions might get in the way and cloud judgement. Suffice it to say there was conflict and my judgement was definitely clouded.
The department in Poplar about an hour away had been sent to investigate. It’d been labeled a robbery gone bad, and an innocent had gotten in the way. The perpetrators never caught. Only I’d refused to believe it. Had known all along that it was bullshit.
“I think I’m in trouble, Ezra. Please, pick up the phone. I really need your help. Call me.”
I would never get those words out of my head. Would never forget the desperation. The panicked voicemail she’d left me after I’d ignored her phone call because I’d been done at that point. I’d given up on her—the moment she’d actually needed me, thinking it was only another bullshit call that was going to drag me back into the chaos that she was.
Chaos I couldn’t handle any longer.
Guilt burned in my chest, and I forced myself to study the images.
Nausea crawled up my throat.
There’d been no evidence found at the scene. Not one fucking thing that had led to any suspects. Only the bullets that belonged to a gun that had never been found and the grainy image of a white van speeding away that had been captured on the camera footage.
There’d been nothing else.
No connection to the bullets.
No trace of the fucking van.
It was like none of it had existed.
I jolted when my office door suddenly popped open.
Samson froze halfway through, his hand on the doorknob and an apology on his face like he was remembering he should have knocked before he barged into my office. I tried to shove everything on my desk back into the file before he noticed what I was looking at.
Except he knew. He’d known all along where I’d disappear to. He knew I was hunting. Digging around and asking questions. Knew I was searching. Knew I was stepping out of bounds because I would either get this case reopened or seek justice for Brianna myself.
Pity flashed through his expression before he schooled it, and he played it off like he hadn’t caught me going through files I wasn’t even supposed to possess.
He sent me a giant grin that didn’t quite land. “Lanie and Bryant are both here. That’s our cue to get the hell out of here before we get stuck listening to Bryant go on about whatever poor chick he hooked up with last night. Shift’s over, boss.”
I roughed both hands over the top of my head to break up the disorder. “Thanks, Samson.”
He hesitated, and awareness slipped back over his features, that same pity twisting his mouth at the edges. “It’s in the past, brother. It’s time you let it go.”
There was no letting it go.
No stopping until vengeance had been found.
“I know. I just had a thought that…maybe I’d missed something obvious. That enough time had gone by that it might stand out now.”
He nodded in understanding. “I get that. But your kids need your focus on them, not on what can’t be changed. You should go home to them.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” I told him like I was giving it up, and I tucked the file back into the bottom drawer of my desk and locked it. “You should head out, too, then. Just make sure you don’t get into too much trouble tonight.”
I arched him a playful brow.
“Never.”
“Sure,” I told him, chuckling low.
Then he softened again. “Have a good night, Ezra. Take care of those kids and take care of yourself.”
Then he rapped his knuckles on my door and walked out.
TWELVE
EZRA
THREE YEARS AGO
In the dark, Ezra paced by the front door, continually roughing his hands over his head as worry clutched his chest. He looked at the clock that hung on the wall for what had to have been the thousandth time that night. It was after eleven, and his stomach was sick.
Hell, every organ in his body was sick. Twisted up and sitting in different spots than they were supposed to. As if his makeup was getting mangled.
Brianna would have gotten off at six where she worked as a receptionist at a doctor’s office.