“Why didn’t you call your mom?”
Harry’s eyes dart to me. “I thought I’d be in trouble.”
“So you know you did something wrong,” I point out. “First you sneak out without telling me, getting your big brother to do your bidding, and then you thought it would be a good idea to play in the park?”
“But I was just—”
“Being stupid,” Dylan interrupts, and Harry’s face dissolves. It’s one thing being told off by your mother, but he hero-worships Dylan, so coming from him it hurts. I almost intervene, but this is about safety. “Remember those boys who went missing?” he continues and I wince. “They didn’t mean for anything to happen to them, but it did. Just last week, you had to hide under your mom’s car after you took off when you weren’t supposed to and got yourself into trouble. Yet today you do it again, putting yourself in a position where you’re not safe. You figure that’s smart?”
“N-no.”
Dylan gives my boy’s shoulder a little shove with his fist. “You want to know what was smart, though? Hiding and sending that message.”
Typical Harry, he grabs onto the positive and hangs on for dear life. Smiling through his tears at the compliment, he explains, “I didn’t want Mom or Theo to come looking with him around, so I sent the message to Liam.”
“See?” Dylan grins, ruffling his hair. “Smart. Now you’ve gotta try and be smart all the time.” Then he leans in and stage-whispers in Harry’s ear, “I’m thinking your mom could use a hug right about now.”
Harry doesn’t waste a minute and launches himself at me. He buries his head against me and I look up at Dylan, whose face is serious as he tilts his head to the door. I nod in response. I assume Damian, and whoever else is out there, is looking. I can understand Dylan wants to be out there too.
“I’ll lock the door behind me,” he says before slipping outside.
I snuggle Harry for a minute before I grab his shoulders and move him back a little. “You think maybe you should go downstairs and apologize to Theo?”
The reluctant, “Okay,” tells me he’d rather not, but he knows better than to argue at this point and heads down to the basement.
I hoist myself up and walk into the kitchen, making sure the sliding door is still locked. I peer into the thick brush threatening to overgrow the back fence, but can’t see any movement. After a few minutes I give up trying, and set out to make a fresh pot of coffee.
I’m pouring some fresh brew in a travel mug—the only thing I’m able to carry with my crutches without spilling—when I hear yelling outside, followed by a sharp crack.
Gunshot.
Instinct has me drop down, spilling coffee all over, when I hear footsteps running up the stairs.
“Mom?”
“Stay down there!” I yell out, hearing Theo’s worried voice. “All of you stay in the basement. I’m fine!”
Or as fine as I can be with my back pressed against the cupboard and my ass sitting in a hot puddle.
Five minutes is a long time when you can’t stop your mind from conjuring up images of the horrible ways your boyfriend could be bleeding to death in your backyard. So long that, when I finally hear a key in the lock, I’m light-headed and my chest hurts from my heart pounding hard.
“Marya?”
The “here,” I’m trying to formulate comes out in a sob, and Dylan’s on his knees in front of me in a nanosecond.
“Shit. Are you hurt?” His hands run over my body until he feels the puddle on the floor. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” he says with a sympathetic look on his face.
“It’s coffee,” I snap, shoving his shoulder. Immediately followed by, “Did anyone get hurt?”
“I wish,” he mumbles before adding at normal volume, “Found the idiot hiding in a culvert behind your neighbor’s yard. He didn’t want to come out and we didn’t want to crawl in the mud after him. Damian fired off a warning shot, which got his ass moving. He’s in custody and being transported to the station.”
He gets to his feet and helps me up as well, brushing the back of his fingers down my cheek before leaning in for a bruising kiss. If not for his arms holding me steady, I surely would’ve ended up back on my ass.
“Can it be over now?” I ask in a small voice when he lifts his mouth, and tucks me under his chin.
“Fuck, I hope so. I’m about ready to pack you all up and move to Alaska.”
“Can we go dogsledding?”
Both our heads turn in the direction of the stairs to find four pairs of eyes on us.
“We’re not moving to Alaska,” I tell Harry.
“I wouldn’t mind dogsledding,” Theo says with a shrug.
“We’re not moving to Alaska,” I repeat.
“That would be really cool, though,” Max contributes with a cheeky grin on his face.
“Forget about Alaska.”
“I’d go.”
My eyes shoot to Liam, who shrugs, grinning sheepishly when the others start snickering. Hope blossoms in my chest—almost painfully—when I take in his playful blue eyes among the brown ones.
Blinking against the burn, I let go of Dylan and wag a finger at the boys.
“No Alaska.”
DYLAN
“You’d better have a real good fucking explanation!”
Detective Tony Ramirez doesn’t flinch when I come charging up to his desk at the DPD station. He simply turns his chair, stretches his legs, and folds his arms over his chest.
“Take it easy, Barnes,” his partner, Keith Blackfoot, suggests.
It wasn’t until after I left Marya and the boys at her place that I realized how badly this could’ve ended, which meant by the time I got to the station, I was worked up again.
“Have a seat.” Ramirez indicates a chair across the desk from him and waits until I sit down. “I followed Berger and his two sleezeball lawyers to the DoubleTree Hilton, watched them park the car, and walk into the lobby. I kept an eye on the door and their vehicle the whole time.”
“And yet, Berger ended up behind Marya’s house.”
“Regrettably, yes. He must’ve gone straight out the back. There’s just one of me, Barnes.”
It’s a natural enough reaction to want to blame someone, but the truth is, there’s nothing I would’ve done any differently myself.
“How’d he get from the hotel to Marya’s?”
“Uber,” Blackfoot answers. “I just got off the phone with the driver. He confirms picking up Berger behind the hotel and dropping him off on Lawrence Avenue.”
“The lawyers?”
“Still at the DoubleTree, as far as I know,” Tony confirms.
“Wouldn’t they be on their way back here?” I suggest.
“You’d think so, but as it turns out, our boy in there—” He nudges his head in the direction of the holding cells. “Doesn’t want them around. He’s been yelling he wants to talk for the past fifteen minutes.”
“So what’s the hold up?”
“Yeager’s on his way.”
“SO TALK.”
I’m wedged into the small room with Blackfoot and Ramirez, watching and listening as Yeager barks at Berger. Like last time, Damian’s in there, as is Joe Benedetti, who has taken up his spot leaning against the wall.
“Before I talk, I need your guarantee my daughter is safe,” Berger fires back. His eyes nervously dart from one to the other.
Damian flips through the file in front of him. “Amelia?”
My mind immediately pulls up the image of the little girl I saw on the mantel at Sylvia Berger’s house.
“Yes. You need to get her out of there. She’s not safe.”
“Why would you say that?” Yeager wants to know and Berger’s eyes flit back to him.
“If you don’t get her safe—”
He swallows the rest of his words when Yeager gets out of his chair and leans with his fists on the table. “Let’s talk about why you were caught hiding behind your ex-wife’s house, violating the protecti
ve order yet again.”
“Please,” Berger pleads. “I’m trying to protect my daughter.”
“I think we get that,” Damian jumps in. “What we’d like to know is what, if anything, that has to do with Ms. Berger and her children.”
“Everything!” he bursts out, agitated.
“You’re going to have to give us more than that, Jeremy,” Yeager picks up. “Why do you feel your daughter is in danger?”
“Please, just make sure.”
“You’re not telling us anything that would justify the Montrose PD to go knocking on the door, Jeremy,” Yeager pushes. “There needs to be cause. Is there anything we need to know about your wife? We can call her, see if—”
“No—not her!”
The chair topples over when Berger surges to his feet. Joe immediately pushes off from the wall, closing in on the agitated man from behind.
“You need to calm down, Jeremy,” he says in a cautioning tone. “Or we’ll be forced to shackle you.”
“She...she’s been brainwashed. Talk to Alba. She’s Amelia’s nanny. Please...”
I’ve heard that name before. Sylvia mentioned the nanny when her father ordered her to check on the little girl. There’d been something off about that whole scene. Keswick being the pompous asshole he is, I thought at the time he was just flexing his muscle for our benefit, but maybe...
“Shit,” I hiss, remembering the way Keswick possessively snatched Amelia’s picture from my hands.
“What?” Keith wants to know.
“I need to talk to Roosberg. For the life of me I can’t see the connection with Marya and the boys, but Berger may be right, the little girl might be in trouble.”
“IT’S POSSIBLE,” LUNA concurs over the phone. “It crossed my mind at the time that the interaction between father and daughter seemed weird. Uncomfortable, even.”
“Exactly.”
“Still doesn’t explain why, if he’s so worried about his daughter, he’s in Durango, harassing his ex-wife and the kids.”
“I know, but I don’t think he’ll talk unless the girl is safe.”
Luna promises to start looking into Connor Keswick when the door to the interrogation room opens and Berger is being led out by Joe.
“I gotta go.”
Damian steps into the hallway, catches my eye, and with a nudge of his head tells me to follow. I walk into the conference room where Yeager and Benedetti look to be in a heated standoff.
“We’ve got a boy to find, we don’t have time to indulge this asshole,” Yeager barks.
“He’s not talking unless we do,” Joe counters. “Local PD can’t do shit without an official report filed. You guys can as part of this investigation.”
“It’s a waste of time, he’s just stalling.” It’s clear Yeager is frustrated with the lack of progress after he drove here from Farmington—for the second time in as many days—hoping to get ahead in his search for Thomas.
“Actually,” I interrupt and launch into my observations during our interview in Montrose.
“You think he’s abusing his granddaughter?” Yeager sounds incredulous.
“I think it may be possible.”
“Let’s suppose that’s the case,” Damian puts forward. “It makes him a child molester...a pedophile.”
His words hang in the conference room and you can almost hear everyone thinking.
“Do we have anything on him?” Yeager asks in general.
“Roosberg is digging,” I volunteer.
“We should all get digging. Fucking lay the man bare. Talk to the damn nanny, to the daughter, but we better play this by the book, because that asshole has the means and the connections to slip through our fingers.”
“What about Berger?” Joe inquires.
“Let him simmer.”
CHAPTER 27
Marya
“It looks good.”
Can’t say I agree, looking down at the ten-inch incision down the front of my knee, but I’ll take his word for it. Not like I had award-winning knees to start with.
“Battle scars,” Mom jokes beside me.
I have a few of those, what’s one more?
It’s been a week and a half since surgery, and even this follow-up visit with the surgeon is a welcome distraction from my couch and Netflix. It doesn’t help I’ve not really seen Dylan since Sunday, and that was for a brief moment when he kissed me goodbye at the crack of dawn.
Beth and Clint showed up mid-afternoon to pick up Max, while Kerry was there with her little one. Mom insisted they stick around for coffee. It didn’t take much to convince Beth at least, who claimed to be in need of some quality baby-time with Dante, and Mom used the opportunity to pick Clint’s brain about upgrades she envisions being done to my house. Something I would normally have argued about with her, but I was too busy trying to wrap my head around the workings of Kerry’s online store.
We have talked a few times, though, so I know there’s been a potential new development in the case. He wasn’t able to share specifics, but he did say time was of the essence and they were working almost around the clock.
I miss him being around. Selfishly miss waking up to his body wrapped around mine, but then I remember he’s out there busting his ass—trying to find that poor boy—and I feel guilty because my kids are safe under my roof, while Thomas’ parents have to wonder if they’ll ever see their son again. I’ve just had a brief taste of that kind of agony, so I can only imagine the torture they’ve lived these past eleven days.
“I’d like to see you again in a month,” Dr. Andrews announces, pulling me from my thoughts. “I’ve adjusted the brace for some movement of the knee, but I need you to talk to reception and have them set you up an appointment for physical therapy in the next few days. No driving until I see you in November.” He catches the grimace on my face and chuckles. “Slow and easy wins the race in this case, Marya. Push too hard and you won’t like how far back that could set you.”
“Slow and easy isn’t a pace she’s accustomed to, Dr. Andrews,” Mom decides to share.
“I get that impression, and it’s Frank.” He smiles at my mother.
“I’ll make sure she’s careful...Frank,” she adds as an afterthought.
“Umm, I’m in the room, guys,” I remind them. “Forty-one and quite capable of following instructions.”
I wait at reception to get my appointments, while Mom and Dr. Andrews stand in the doorway of his office, undoubtedly chuckling at my expense.
“November twenty-seventh for Dr. Andrews, and the earliest I could get you into the PT clinic here at the hospital is next Tuesday at ten thirty. Will that work for you?”
“That’s fine,” I tell the girl behind the counter when she hands over two appointment cards. “I’m sure it’ll be the highlight of my week.”
“Ignore her,” Mom says, hooking an arm in mine, her eyes on the receptionist. “She’s out of sorts because she has to put up with my driving.”
Mom is still grinning when she helps me into the passenger seat of my Jeep, which is easier to get in and out.
“It wasn’t that funny,” I point out when she gets behind the wheel.
“What?” She turns to me, genuinely confused and wearing a healthy blush on her cheeks I suddenly realize is not from the cold wind outside.
“No way,” I blurt out, shifting sideways in my seat.
Mom lifts her eyebrows high and blinks a few times. “What?” she repeats, but she’s not throwing me off.
“Oh my God, I just witnessed my mother flirting,” I mumble at no one in particular. “I didn’t even know that was possible.”
“I’m not dead yet,” she snaps, putting my Jeep in gear and backing out of the parking spot. “He’s a nice man.”
He’s also probably ten, maybe even fifteen years younger than her, but far be it from me to point that out. I’m in love with a guy eight years my junior. Plus, Dr. Andrews—Frank—is a nice man.
I glance at her profile. Her ha
ir is gray now, her skin no longer so smooth, and her chin is softer than it used to be, but my mother is still a beautiful woman. Clear eyes that are always kind, a full mouth permanently tilted up, and a warm heart underneath her sometimes abrasive nature.
I realize, looking at her, that I’m seeing myself in twenty-five or so years, and it’s not a bad thing. Not at all.
“He is, Mom. And he’s also a damn lucky man you noticed that.”
Her eyes flit to me and a soft smile plays on her lips as she grabs my hand for a quick squeeze. “What do you want for dinner?” Never big on letting the occasional sweet moment linger too long, Mom gets practical.
“I wouldn’t mind some soup. It’s the kind of day for it, kinda chilly.”
“Potato soup and grilled cheese?” she suggests.
“Yes, that sounds good.”
“Let me stop at the City Market to pick up a few things. You can wait in the car, I won’t be long.”
She’s just disappeared inside when my phone rings in my purse. I smile when I see Dylan’s name.
“Hey.”
“How did it go?”
“He seemed pleased with the healing. Adjusted the brace so I can actually bend my knee a little, and has me start PT next week. But...no driving, no standing for long periods of time, for at least another four weeks, until I see him again.”
“Slow and easy, Sweetheart.” I hear the smile in his voice.
“Not you too,” I moan. “Mom and Frank are already on my case.”
“Frank?”
“Dr. Andrews.”
“I see.”
A pregnant silence follows, and I have to bite my lip not to start laughing when it occurs to me he might be jealous. After all, Dr. Andrews is a handsome man and age-wise is stuck somewhere between Mom and me.
“I only know his name is Frank because he made it a point to share that with my mother.”
“Your mother?”
“Yeah, apparently you’re not the only guy who has a thing for older women,” I tease him.
“I don’t have a thing for older women,” he disagrees. “I have a thing for you. You happen to be older, that’s all.”
10-Code (Rock Point, #4) Page 22