With Ties that Bind: A Broken Bonds Novel, Book Two

by Trisha Wolfe

I pump a dollop of shampoo onto my palm and then soothingly work it into her ratty hair. At first, she’s tense. Her eyes fight to stay open. She knows better than to give herself over to comforts, to let her guard down. But as I massage her scalp, tenderly lathering the shampoo into her hair, she relaxes. Her eyes drift shut.

  “You’re extra perceptive to this,” I tell her. “You’ll use your instincts and wits to survive. Even prosper in your circumstance. You’ll become a favorite.”

  “Then—” I rest my sudsy hands on her shoulders “—you’ll be tempted to want more.”

  I push her below the water. Hold her under. Her arms and legs thrash at the water. Her body bucks and battles against my grip.

  I bring her up. “I can’t have even one smart cunt tarnish my name and business.” I submerge her again.

  I don’t just offer my clients a product; I offer them a superior product.

  Broken and ready to be rebuilt to their own making.

  When her fight begins to weaken, her grasp on my wrists going slack, I use my thumbs to pry her eyes open. She stares at me through the water, through her fear. She’ll never forget this feeling.

  And, when I finally drag her above the water, gasping for air, tears blending with the water soaking her skin, I snatch her hair and haul her close. “Never forget who made you. You won’t ever belong to any of those men.” I kiss her lips affectionately. Stroke the fresh brand along her thigh.

  “You’re mine. Always.”

  12

  Grave

  Quinn

  As a detective, I depend on particular skillsets to uncover the truth. I’ve honed my instincts to be extra perceptive. I pride myself in knowing when a perp is lying. I enjoy making them sweat, turning up the heat, watching them unravel.

  Since the close of the serial killer case, I’ve been aware that not every convenient detail surrounding Simon Whitmore was as clear-cut as it was documented. Against my nature, I made a conscious choice to ignore the annoying points that didn’t quite line up. I postponed delving into the past in order to protect someone I care about.

  It was the hardest choice of my career.

  Sleepless nights plagued me as my brain churned the facts, trying to link Simon to Lyle Connelly. Yet deep down, I knew Sadie was the link—even if I had no evidence. She was hiding the variable that would tie their connection together.

  That variable’s name was Price Wells.

  He was the missing link.

  That night in the hospital, when I sat beside Sadie, as we both waited to hear on Avery’s condition, I could’ve asked—and in that moment, Sadie would have told me the truth. But if she had, I would’ve been bound by my Oath of Honor to bring her actions to light.

  I’ve been able to move forward by telling myself I didn’t pursue it because Sadie needed to be protected. I wanted—and still want—to believe she killed Connelly in self-defense.

  We all lie to ourselves. That’s the real maddening truth.

  And I’m the biggest liar of all. I believed I was carrying this burden for her. But selfishly, I didn’t want the full burden placed on me, to be the one to exhume the past and have the crippling truth stare me right in the face:

  My partner is a killer.

  I’m just as guilty as Sadie and Avery by my own omission.

  I can’t recall who first told me that omission is just a convenient form of betrayal—but it’s as true now as ever, and it’s time to stop lying.

  I’ve been parked out front of the precinct for half an hour, contemplating, deciding my next action. I left my apartment this morning before Avery awoke. Left her a box of green tea and honey that I picked up for her on the counter. With a note:

  Don’t leave until your detail arrives to escort you to work.

  Bitter, chaste. Strictly business. The words of a colleague and not a lover. Not even a friend. Part of me—the part that stopped Sadie from revealing the truth—wanted to crawl into bed with Avery last night and make love to her until her pain fled. Chase away her darkness. Reassure her that I’ll always protect her.

  But the part of me that took an oath all those years ago couldn’t give in so easily. I’m a bastard, I know. Who turns their back on the woman they love after she just confessed her sins? Hell, after she confessed she loved me.

  I’m a fucking bastard.

  I touch the folded letter tucked in my coat pocket. I think about pulling it out, reading it again. Instead, I drop my hand, leaving Avery’s words to fester right next to my heart.

  She must have been half delirious with exhaustion when she wrote it. What does she want me to do? Turn it in? Let her take the whole wrap for Wells?

  If I was half the man she needs…I’d tear the letter up. Burn it. Stomp on the ashes.

  Hell, it’s not a true confession, anyway. It’s fabricated. Meant to protect Sadie. I don’t need my keen detective skills to decipher the lies, but they help.

  They help so well I can suss out just what role Sadie did play. Without Sadie, Avery never would’ve known who her true abductor was—she wouldn’t be suffering the torment she’s suffering now. Her conscience tearing her apart. Had Sadie not taken the law into her own hands, and had come to me with the truth, Wells would be in prison. Avery would be safe. And the only one in danger of their past would be Sadie.

  Shit. I’ve fucking come full circle.

  A knock on my window drags me out of my self-loathing, and I turn to see Carson standing beside my car. His glum expression sums up how all of this has gone to shit. I motion for him to back away as I open the door and step out, well aware of what he’s about to ask. He’s been blowing up my phone all morning.

  “I’m not turning you in. Yet,” I tell him, and the tension in his shoulders immediately diminishes.

  “Thank you, Detective Quinn. But…why not?” He’s dressed like he’s applying for his first job. White dress shirt starched. Slacks ironed. He came in prepared to fight for his job. Ready to impress me.

  Good. He should be on point, but in all honesty, after I left Avery in my bed last night, the thought of Carson being the department leak hasn’t crossed my mind once. And if I report him now, I’ll have to make a firm decision on my own culpable actions.

  That’s not why I’m here.

  “Contrary to popular belief,” I say, “I do give more than one chance, Carson. You’re a good detective with some bad habits.” I stare down at him. “That’s a recipe for a dirty cop.”

  “I know,” he says, lowering his gaze. “I have been getting help. You know, for the gambling.”

  He can’t look me in the eye. He’s lying, but right now, there’s bigger issues than his personal problems to conquer. “Just don’t make me regret it.”

  When his eyes meet mine, I at least know he means to try. “I won’t, boss.” He rubs the back of his neck, glancing around. “Any word on tonight?”

  I direct my gaze on the precinct. “I’ll know in about ten minutes.”

  Carson wasn’t exaggerating when he said the department was crawling with black suits. The FBI Organized Crime Division has their own damn headquarters not ten miles away, and yet they’ve taken over my department.

  The turf invaders are using our resources. But why?

  I halt Carson with the back of my hand to his chest. “The bond hearing yesterday – what happened during the questioning?”

  Carson’s features pull together. “There was no questioning. Shit. Avery said not to tell you—”

  I cross my arms, eyes narrowed hard on him.

  He scratches the back of his head, as if he’s digging the answers out. “The perps are out on bond. Maddox got them out on some bullshit claim of accidental imprisonment. Stating according to them, Avery was already inside the van when they ‘borrowed’ it.”

  Anger spikes my blood. The pieces all trickle down from there. During the hearing, Avery will have to testify to the fact she was kidnapped from the lab. Maddox and his slimy clients are counting on her not doing so, because the Alph
a is threatening to expose her for altering evidence on Wells’ death. Maybe even try to frame her for his murder.

  “You know it won’t stick,” Carson says, interrupting my thoughts. “There’s no way a judge will buy that shit.”

  Not in a just world, where criminals don’t have judges in their pockets—but we can’t trust a system that’s already proven to be corrupt.

  “Is there surveillance on the perps now?” I ask.

  “At least two unis,” he says, eyebrows drawn together in question.

  “Okay. Good. Collect all intel from them and then stay put in your office until I call you.”

  “I can do that.” He turns toward me. “What are you going to do?”

  What I have to.

  “I’ll contact you soon,” I say as I take off toward Wexler’s office.

  Not even a full two days, and I’m crawling back to the only thing I know. I don’t give a shit what it looks like—if every person on this floor pities the pathetic has-been detective. I’m not moving forward without my badge.

  I knock on the captain’s door. When it opens, I’m not surprised to see a couple of Feds inside, despite hoping to do this in private. “Captain?”

  He looks washed-out. His gray hair mussed, and he’s wearing the same clothes from yesterday. He motions me through the doorway. “Just in time,” he says. “Come on in.”

  As I enter, the two Feds nod to me in greeting. I’m well acquainted with Agent Rollins, but the woman with long dark hair to his left I can’t place.

  “Special Agent Rollins you’ve met. He was a great help to us on the previous serial killer case. And this is Special Agent Bell.”

  She extends her hand. “Lena,” she says, and I raise my brows. “Yes, I know. Lena Bell. My name is a little sing-song.” She smiles warmly as I shake her hand. “My mother was a bit different.”

  Vague and open at the same time. A difficult combination to pull off, but this agent does it with style. “You’re the head of the Organized Crime Division.”

  Her smile spreads easily, making her the brightest thing in Wexler’s drab office. “I am, detective. Good instincts. That’s precisely why I’ve requested to bring you back in.”

  Requested. I look at Wexler for confirmation on this. From his overworked appearance, I’d say she hardly requested nicely. The captain settles behind his desk and opens a drawer. “You’ve been officially reinstated, Quinn.” He places my gun and badge on the desk.

  Like Carson, I came here with one purpose: to fight for my job. To make sure that what transpires next is upheld within the parameters of the law. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I’m somewhat disappointed. I had a whole speech prepared and everything, and I’m still locked and loaded.

  Relaxing my stiff shoulders, I bury my rebuttal with a heavy exhale. “I appreciate your confidence in me.” It comes out more condescending than I intend.

  “I never lost confidence in you,” Wexler states. “You do understand that reprimands have to be issued. This was far less severe than it could’ve been—”

  “But there are more pressing circumstances than dangerous highway pursuits,” Agent Bell interrupts. “In the Bureau, your methods used to rescue Doctor Johnson would’ve been received with praise rather than reprimand. As such, I’m convinced that we need you on this investigation, Detective Quinn.”

  I holster my gun in my shoulder harness and tuck my badge into the inseam of my coat. I take a moment to appreciate the feel of being reinstated, complete as a detective, before turning toward the agent. “Then you’re aware of how I operate,” I say, measuring her facial response. “My partner and I work alone.”

  She must be as skilled as I am at schooling her features. As hard as that statement was to make about Sadie—as difficult as it is to openly stand by her, having confirmed my worst suspicions—I did so with the cool confidence of a detective with nothing to hide, and the agent doesn’t bat an eye or tick a muscle.

  “Although the Bureau is inclined to see things done with a certain order,” she says, closing the gap between us. “I realize that each of my agents have their own skills, their own methods, in which they operate.”

  I stare into her eyes, aware of the awkwardness our standoff is creating for the other two men in this office. “I’m not one of your agents.”

  Here, her lips do twitch. A slight smile pulls into place. “Doesn’t mean we can’t work well together, detective.”

  I should ask what she needs from this department. She obviously requires the cooperation from my team, which is the only reason why I’ve been reinstated. She needs me to corral the officers, get them in line and onboard. Operating under her command.

  I should ask—but it might be more interesting to watch it play out.

  I match her smile. “I think we will work quite well together, Agent Bell. I’m at your disposal.”

  Her tongue traces her bottom lip before her smile widens. I let my gaze be drawn to her full lips and that action, giving her what she wants; a sense of control over me. “Great,” she says. “Let’s get to work.”

  I glance over at Wexler, who’s unable to mask his anxiousness. He should be concerned. He’s just let a whole lot of trouble walk right into his precinct. Agent Bell heads into the bullpen, and I follow closely behind.

  Allowing Special Agent Lena Bell to address the task force was easier and less painful than I thought it would be. She took the reins, grouping unis and detectives into individual teams with their own assignments.

  Even during the serial killer case, I refused to let Agent Proctor call all the shots. The last side op I orchestrated with Sadie could’ve gotten her killed, and I was attacked. I’m not above admitting when I make a mistake, and I’d like to believe I learn from them. So this time, I’m more than capable of hanging back and letting the big dogs set the pace.

  You learn more when you watch.

  Maybe it’s me getting older, having run low on that young blood testosterone that demands I chase after every suspect, but if I’ve discovered anything from the previous case, it’s this: narcissists will make themselves known.

  I don’t have to chase down every one, throwing my weight around. Tackling every suspect and beating answers out. If you listen closely, they’ll reveal the answers. They can’t help but want to be heard.

  Once Agent Bell wraps up the task force meeting, sending the teams on their way, she approaches me with a phone. “This is your direct line to me.” She takes my hand in hers and places the phone in my palm. She doesn’t release me right away, her hand too soft and small compared to my rough, large one.

  “I know this is difficult for you,” she continues. “Everyone here cares for Doctor Johnson and wants to see her safe, but you especially.”

  I pull my hand free and slide the phone into my breast pocket. “I don’t think it takes special intelligence to uncover that fact and state the obvious.”

  A tight smile seams her lips together. “Human trafficking cases are never easy, Quinn. Couple that with a serial killer amid this case, and that makes it even harder. I’ve worked many trafficking cases, and every time, there’s a painful tradeoff. You lose a part of yourself with each one.” She sighs. “It’s either that, or never be able to sleep. You have to harden yourself in ways that separate you from the people you care about.”

  I tilt my head, really studying her. “Are you trying to warn me about something?”

  She touches my arm. “It can get lonely. And I realize you’re an island. You’ve said yourself that you work best alone.” She caresses my arm tenderly. “You’re a leader, and leaders suffer isolation like no other. I don’t want this case to do that to you. I want you to know that I understand…that I can relate to that loneliness.”

  Mother of mercy. Talk about head shrinking. I’d be scared to put her and Sadie in the same room together. I offer her a genuine smile to diffuse some of my discomfort. “I appreciate your concern, Agent—”

  “Lena,” she states.

&nb
sp; “Ah, Lena.” I scrub the back of my neck, heat splashing my face. “But I did say that I work with a partner. Thank you, though. If I have any questions or concerns, I know where to bring them.”

  “Anytime,” she says. “My proverbial door is always open to you.”

  Jesus. I watch her saunter off toward Wexler, her hips swinging, long legs eating up the floor with each sultry step. If she lays it on me that heavily, I worry about the poor bastard she really puts in her sights.

  I’m not the only one who picked up on what she was dropping. Sadie stands at the door to my office, her arms crossed, one eyebrow cocked.

  Hell. Of course she saw.

  I head her way and open my door, standing to the side as I nod her inside. “Don’t start—”

  “If that scene got any hotter, I’d have to douse you with a bucket of ice water.” She tilts her head. “And someone should hose her down for sure.”

  For the moment, I let her have her victory. “I think that’s her way of keeping tabs.”

  She smirks. “I thought you were more perceptive than that.”

  I shake my head. “Why are you here?”

  Her head jerks back. “Why am I here? The FBI are heading up a full investigation into a criminal network they believe are in charge of the major human trafficking in Virginia. Right here, in this department.” She eases closer to me. “And we have intel on an auction that happens to be taking place tonight.”

  I lean back against my desk, cross my arms. “So we let the Feds handle it.”

  The shock on her face would cause me physical pain any other day. Sadie’s disappointed glower can bring a man to his knees. But not today.

  “You’re really going to hand over control to the Feds. Put Avery’s fate in their hands.”

  “Is that what I’m doing?” I straighten to my full height and look down at her.

  “Yes.” She doesn’t back down.

  “And how do you think I should handle it? Set up a secret meeting with the Alpha. Slip him a poison. Watch him die. Then have Avery doctor the COD report as just another fatal accident.” I brush my hands together, as if wiping them clean. “There seems to be a pattern of those accidents with your cases, Bonds.”