Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 102903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
“Honestly, Tony, I think we’re missing something when it comes to the killer.” Sherry sighs and shakes her head. “I’m just not seeing why he’d leave behind the murder weapon knowing that Abby’s going to have the tools to trace it.”
She reminds me so much of my grandma Harriet when her dementia had progressed significantly. Her comfort was her birdhouses. She must’ve had thirty of them scattered throughout the yard, and my grandpa Louie made it part of their daily routine to check on the birdhouses and ensure they were stocked with seed in the morning, in the afternoon, and right before dinnertime.
Grandma Harriet had birdhouses. Sherry has NCIS. The thought tugs at something inside me, and before I know it, I’m wondering what it would be like for Sherry to meet my grandpa Louie—what it would be like for Hannah and her mother to meet my family.
Ironically enough, I’m due to go to my parents’ house later today to celebrate my grandfather’s birthday, and my imagination paints a picture of Hannah sitting at their long dining table with me—my mom doting on her, my grandpa giving her his normal sarcastic banter.
It’s ridiculous, of course. I’ve spent the last decade keeping women at arm’s length when it comes to my family. Too many times, I’ve seen the shift in someone’s eyes when they realize the kind of money that’s equated with my family. Equated with me. It’s never ended well.
Money does strange things to people. Hell, the only reason anyone at MNPD knows about the connection is because of Shane’s big mouth. Otherwise, I keep that part of my life locked away. I don’t want to be Dominic Dunn, heir to the Dunn Coffee throne. I want to be Dominic Dunn, period.
But Hannah . . . she doesn’t feel like someone who’d care about any of that. She’s real. Genuine. She’s someone who belongs at that ta—
“Earth to Tony,” Sherry comments, her voice filled with impatience and the power to pull my attention back. “Don’t you think we’re missing something with the killer? I mean, surely he knows how skilled Abby is.”
“Maybe he wasn’t planning on dealing with someone as good as Abby,” I answer, and surprisingly I actually know which NCIS character she’s talking about. Clearly, my binge-watching is paying off. “I mean, if he filed off the serial number, it’d take some real digging to figure out who the weapon belonged to.”
Sherry sighs again, her mind very busy with solving whatever case she’s thinking about. I take out a pan from the cabinet next to the stove before rooting around in the fridge until I find some eggs and butter.
“Abby has the bullets to match for ballistics, and he didn’t police his brass,” Sherry states. “It just feels sloppy, and I’m wondering if it’s intentional.”
I shrug, clicking on the burner and scraping some butter in to heat up. “Maybe he’s just not that good.”
“No, Tony,” Sherry says with a tsk. “This is the fifth murder tied to this MO, and you guys would have caught him by now if he was just sloppy. This is calculated. I mean, maybe it’s a frame job like the one they tried to pull on you.”
“Yeah—”
“Sherry, who are you talking to?” Hannah asks, stepping out of her bedroom and pulling a sweatshirt over her head.
Her hair is messy from sleep, cascading over her shoulders in soft waves, and the sight of her stirs something deep in my chest. I clear my throat to call her attention, and her eyes broaden as they settle on me at the stove.
“Sorry,” I apologize softly with a shrug, and when her brow furrows in confusion, I find a gentle way to explain the morning’s events. “So . . . Sherry found me in the driveway this morning, wanting to discuss some case details.”
Her jaw gapes in shock. “S-she went outside?”
I nod.
Hannah’s eyes widen in fear first, then settle into sadness. And I know why—if I hadn’t been out there, there’s no telling what could have happened.
Seeing that sadness on her face is like a punch to the gut, rooted, of course, in my failure to protect her, even though emotional security isn’t in my job description.
I want to tell her something that’ll ease her anxiety about her mother’s safety. Something that’ll help. But I know how things were for my grandpa Louie when my grandma’s dementia was progressing. I know how he did everything in his power to keep her safe, to keep her happy, and to keep her living in her own home.
But even with around-the-clock care, things like what Sherry did this morning still occurred.
There’s no easy fix, no magic words that will make Hannah feel secure. This problem—the slow demise of the mother she once knew—isn’t one I can solve, no matter how hard I try.