from walking to sleeping because of the never-ending pain.
“That’s your leg, Marc. I’m talking about your shitty attitude.”
Marc didn’t bother replying. The shitty attitude and the answer would be the same. One minute he had been chasing a skip toward the Mexican border over rough terrain. The next he was ejected from his Jeep at ninety miles an hour.
At least the skip hadn’t bolted. The border patrols had had to cut him out of an SUV.
Now, four months later, the skip sat in jail awaiting trial, and Marc was an out-of-work bounty hunter who could barely stand to take a piss let alone drive, living with his mother in this city he’d put behind him long ago.
“You’re not usually so dense,” Marc said. “I didn’t realize becoming a father dulled the edges.”
Nic clutched the steering wheel, knuckles white, visibly restraining himself. Probably wanted to throw a punch. When all else failed, restrain the idiot pissing him off. Made him a helluva cop. Probably would have thrown a punch, too, if all his high-tech computer cop gear hadn’t blocked a decent shot.
“All right, Marc, you listen to me. And you listen good because I will not repeat myself. This is your one and only warning. Next time I will knock you down and keep you there while everyone you’ve been rude to takes a swing. You hear me?”
He expected an answer?
Nic exhaled hard, frustration radiating like heat off asphalt. “I get that it’s taking you a long time to heal. I get that your leg hurts and the therapy is only making the pain worse. But you’re alive, and you have a lot of people who care about you, even though you’re pushing everyone away. The next time you want to open your mouth, just remember that if anything more than a thank-you comes out, my fist will be going in.
“You’ve got Mom worried sick. No one will drop by the house because you’re so miserable to be around. You’ve even managed to piss off my daughter, who’s in love with everyone and everything in this family. Really, man, you’re making a hell of an impression on your niece. That make you proud?”
Pride would imply Marc cared. And Nic’s daughter, Violet, was an impressionable teenager who needed a good dose of reality. She’d lived most of her life without knowing her father or this crazy family. She might have been better off living the rest of her life without knowing them.
“Do you hear me, Marc? I’m not playing. Knock it off with your pity party before you alienate everyone and wind up alone with your busted leg.”
“What makes you think that’s not what I want?”
A valid question. But Marc miscalculated the protection of the cruiser’s computer gear because the next thing he knew, Nic’s fingers were tightening around his collar until he swallowed hard against the pressure.
Damned painkillers were slowing his reactions.
“Get. Over. It.” Nic spit out each word, the veins bulging in his temples.
Marc wouldn’t give his brother the satisfaction of a reaction. He would sit here and asphyxiate. No sweat. A corpse in the front seat of the police chief’s cruiser. Nic was the only one with a problem here.
He knew it, too. His gaze narrowed as he reined in his anger, emphasizing the point with another twist that nearly crushed Marc’s windpipe.
Finally, Nic eased his grip. “You get what I want?”
Under normal circumstance, Marc wouldn’t have taken this crap. But circumstances weren’t normal. He couldn’t throw off his brother. Couldn’t even argue because Nic was right. Marc was a miserable asshole. He knew it.
The drugs were making his brain rot because he didn’t care.
“Unlock this door before I put my fist through the window and you get blood all over your front seat.” He forced the words out through his raw throat.
He wasn’t playing, either. What was one more injury when he was a damned cripple already?
Nic must have recognized it, too, because he finally leaned back and warned, “Get a grip, Marc. Seriously. I get whatever the hell I want. I’m the chief of police in this town and your older brother. You’re screwed either way.”
That much was true.
CHAPTER TWO
Two weeks later
JUST DRIVING THROUGH New Orleans and parking in front of Mama DiLeo’s house made Courtney feel better. As if she were somehow in control of her life. As if she somehow had a say. She didn’t, but for one shining moment, she almost felt that way.
Late summer heat pounded at the windows even this early in the day, but she sat there, ensuring that her emotions wouldn’t leak around the edges. Not usually a problem, but with life upside-down, the self-control she took for granted was giving her fits.
Courtney had been placed on administrative leave from work while the FBI conducted the investigation on Araceli Ruiz-Ortiz—a situation that had gotten worse when the girl they’d presumed was Araceli had also gone missing within days of the classroom fight that revealed this mess.
Life had come to a screeching halt for Courtney. Days that had passed at a frenetic pace and ended with still so much to be done were suddenly empty. Hour after hour, from the time she opened her eyes until they shut of their own accord—who could sleep anymore?—were minutes ticking by with no purpose.
No more caring for kids. No more stabilizing, learning and managing their lives. Her keys to the department had been confiscated. She had been temporarily evicted from her office and told to wait for others to sort out the situation of the mixed-up and missing girls. She had been told there was nothing she could do but catch up on things at home.
But all the jobs Courtney had once intended to squeeze into long weekends had been forgotten—the flower bed around her new shed, wallpapering the tiny interior of her niece’s dollhouse, tiling the wall behind the sink in the kitchen. Somehow she had managed to be more productive during those weekends that passed in the blink of an eye than she did now with day after endless day free.
Two eternal weeks as the FBI launched an investigation with all the deliberation of a law enforcement agency that had no hope of finding Araceli alive. Courtney had been obedient, even patient, but as each day passed with a lot of wasted time and no discernible progress, she had grown frustrated and frightened.
After learning from Giselle that the FBI had been searching for the fake Araceli and hadn’t yet begun a search for the real one, Courtney could no longer wait for others to sort out the situation.
So here she was at Mama DiLeo’s house, two hours before Sunday dinner, armed with the beginnings of a plan.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, Courtney opened the car door, finally ready. She had to knock only once before a lilting voice called, “Coming.”
The door swung wide, and Mama DiLeo was there, smiling as she recognized her guest. “Good to see you, honey. Come in.”
Courtney couldn’t quite manage a smile, but Mama smiled for both of them, a smile that made Courtney feel as if she mattered
