the first time in seventy-two hours, Quint made eye contact with his boss. His gut was knotted with dread at losing that last part of himself. He wanted to go to the men’s room and puke up everything in his stomach, then he wanted to go to the nearest bar and refill it with the cheapest crap they had. He wanted to die.
What he did was stand up very carefully. He pulled his badge from his belt, took his credentials from his back pocket and unholstered the gun on his hip. He had to clear his throat twice to make his voice work. “I’ll make it easy for you, Sam. I quit.”
Sam wasn’t surprised. “I don’t want you to quit. You’re a good cop, and I need good cops. I just need you to…”
If he said, “Get over it,” Quint would punch him in the face, and if he hit him once, he wouldn’t stop until he was pulled off.
“I need you to deal with it, Quint,” Sam said quietly. “I can’t even begin to guess how hard this is for you. Belinda was your world, and it’s unfair as hell that she’s gone, but you’re not. You can’t just crawl into your grief and wait to die. It’s not what she’d want. It’s not even what you want, or you would have already done something.”
Quint didn’t know if he should argue that last statement. He felt every year of his forty years twice over. He was tired. Worn-out. Hopeless. Faithless. Alone. Every morning since her death, he’d woken up and thought, damn, he’d survived another night. For a while, it had been a good damn. Everyone had told him—his family, his friends, Linny’s pastor—that recovery was a one-day-at-a-time deal. He was supposed to be grateful for each day he made it through, and in return, God was supposed to make each successive day a little easier.
It hadn’t happened.
“I don’t want you to quit,” Sam said again, “but I can’t keep you as assistant chief. I have to put you on probation. Back in uniform. Back on the street. Are you willing to do that?”
A sound halfway between a snort and a laugh escaped Quint. He sank into the chair again, rubbing hard at his eyes. He hadn’t been in uniform since he’d met Linny twelve years ago. He didn’t even own the current uniform; suits or tactical pants and polo shirts had been his work clothes. Everyone in the department—hell, in the whole damn town—would know he’d been demoted. They would scorn him or pity him. No one would ask his opinion, respect his judgment or even acknowledge all his years of good work. He’d be a patrol officer again, writing tickets, filling out reports on inconsequential incidents, turning the important cases—the cases he’d handled himself the past twelve years—over to detectives to investigate.
But he would still be a cop. He would still have a reason to get out of bed in the morning. And given what he’d done, that was a hell of a lot more than he deserved.
His jaw didn’t want to unclench. His mouth didn’t want to form words, but he forced them out. “Yes, Chief. I’m willing.”
The sixth sense that JJ Logan considered as much a tool in her line of work as any of the physical, tangible ones made the back of her neck tingle. She lowered the binoculars from her eyes and shifted her gaze to the rearview mirror. A police vehicle, its lights on, was pulling to the side of the road behind her. She’d half expected this—a stranger with out-of-state tags on her car surveilling a local’s house just screamed for police intervention—but it gave her an odd feeling, being on the wrong side of the flashing red-and-blue lights.
A tall, lean man dressed in khakis got out. He seated his hat before he began walking toward her, tipping it so it shadowed most of his face, then stopped far enough away from her car that she couldn’t open the door and knock him off balance.
She liked caution in a cop. That was why she kept her hands resting loosely on the steering wheel. She waited, prepared to tell him right up front that she was a cop herself, to show him her ID, driver’s license and proof of insurance and tell him that she had a pistol in the console and a Taser on her hip.
Before she had a chance to even say hello, though, he surprised her.
“Are you Jennifer Jo Logan?”
She blinked, her mouth quirking the way it always did when she was called by her full name. Growing up, it had meant trouble, with consequences she deserved. Today, though, she couldn’t possibly have done anything to earn consequences. She didn’t know a soul in Cedar Creek, Oklahoma, and no one knew she was here besides her parents, her sisters and a few people back home. While watching someone’s house might provoke curiosity, it wasn’t actually illegal.
Except…one of those people who knew she was here and why was the person she trusted least in the world. Police Chief Bryan Chadwick. Her boss.
The officer was waiting, his expression immobile, and she forced a smile. “Yes, I’m JJ Logan. Can I help you?”
His carved-stone features didn’t shift. “Chief Douglas would like to have a word with you. If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to the station.” His voice was deep, reminding her of the long-ago times of midnight radio broadcasts, sultry music and a honey-sweet, soothing voice. This morning, the voice was a little short on the honey. Instead it was raspy, heavy, what she would expect from someone who didn’t talk a whole lot.
“I know where it is, Officer…” Her gaze flickered to the brass nameplate on his shirt. “Foster.” She’d studied online maps of Cedar Creek, familiarizing herself with the places that would be important while she was here: the hotel, the police station and sheriff’s departments, the house she’d been watching just ahead and, of course, restaurants. Creek Café had a zillion five-star reviews, and there were Chinese, barbecue and steak places that were similarly popular. She was a real fan of food that someone else had prepped, cooked, served and cleaned up after, so she intended to visit every one of them.
Her smile, her cooperation and her friendly use of his name didn’t soften him one bit. “Then I’ll follow you.”
Ah. The chief’s request to see her wasn’t a request at all. Like a lot of small-town police chiefs, he probably didn’t play well with others, especially when those others wandered into his jurisdiction and didn’t show the courtesy of dropping by to introduce themselves. She’d told Chief Dipstick—er, Chadwick—that she wanted to check in with the locals, but he’d instructed her not to. This was family business, private—no need to involve anyone else.
That hadn’t been a request, either. Chief Dipstick considered himself so far superior to women that asking them for something would never cross his mind.
Suppressing a sigh, she looked up at Officer Foster again. Barely visible under his hat, his hair was blond, streaked with lighter strands that would be a definite gray in a few more years. Dark glasses hid his eyes, but with the blond hair and golden skin, she would put her money on blue. She would also bet they were as steely as…well, steel. To match the hard line of his jaw. He looked like a guy who was having a bad day. A guy who made other people have bad days.
Don’t get confrontational with a cop who is armed. One of her personal rules. With a thin but notoriously compliant smile, she said, “I appreciate the escort, Officer. Okay if I make a U-turn?”
His response was a slight tilt of his head.
As she started the engine, he stepped back, then returned to
