THOMAS FINCHAM
THE BROKEN MOTHER
A LEE CALLAWAY MYSTERY
The Broken Mother © Thomas Fincham 2019
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, including the right to reproduce this work or portions thereof, in any form.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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LEE CALLAWAY
The Dead Daughter (Lee Callaway #1)
The Gone Sister (Lee Callaway #2)
The Falling Girl (Lee Callaway #3)
The Invisible Wife (Lee Callaway #4)
The Missing Mistress (Lee Callaway #5)
HYDER ALI
The Silent Reporter (Hyder Ali #1)
The Rogue Reporter (Hyder Ali #2)
The Runaway Reporter (Hyder Ali #3)
The Serial Reporter (Hyder Ali #4)
The Street Reporter (Hyder Ali #5)
The Student Reporter (Hyder Ali #0)
MARTIN RHODES
Close Your Eyes (Martin Rhodes #1)
Cross Your Heart (Martin Rhodes #2)
Say Your Prayers (Martin Rhodes #3)
Fear Your Enemy (Martin Rhodes #0)
ECHO ROSE
The Rose Garden (Echo Rose #1)
The Rose Tattoo (Echo Rose #2)
The Rose Thorn (Echo Rose #3)
The Rose Water (Echo Rose #4)
FOREWORD
IMPORTANT NOTE: (PLEASE READ)
Dear Reader,
This book deals with the Men’s Rights Movement. A topic that may turn some readers off so I thought I should address it here first. There is no agenda in writing this book. Sometimes, in order to keep a series fresh and exciting, a writer must go in a direction that he/she may not have thought of going initially. It is done to create tension and conflict within the story. And it also allows a writer to explore different sides of a character.
It has never been my intention to offend anyone. If I am guilty of one thing it is that I am too idealistic.
When I decided to write about a Muslim character in the Hyder Ali series, I was told no one would read it. It’s now one of my better selling series and it was all thanks to readers who gave the book/series a chance. I believe that people are inherently good. It’s their circumstances that make them do bad. For that reason, I try not to make my villains one-dimensional and my heroes without flaws.
My main goal has always been to write a page-turning, glued-to-your-seat mystery/thriller. I hope I was able to accomplish that with The Broken Mother.
As always, thank you for checking out my work. Without you I wouldn’t get to do what I do.
Sincerely,
Thomas Fincham
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
FORTY-FIVE
FORTY-SIX
FORTY-SEVEN
FORTY-EIGHT
FORTY-NINE
FIFTY
FIFTY-ONE
FIFTY-TWO
FIFTY-THREE
FIFTY-FOUR
FIFTY-FIVE
FIFTY-SIX
FIFTY-SEVEN
FIFTY-EIGHT
FIFTY-NINE
SIXTY
SIXTY-ONE
SIXTY-TWO
SIXTY-THREE
SIXTY-FOUR
SIXTY-FIVE
SIXTY-SIX
SIXTY-SEVEN
SIXTY-EIGHT
SIXTY-NINE
SEVENTY
SEVENTY-ONE
SEVENTY-TWO
SEVENTY-THREE
SEVENTY-FOUR
SEVENTY-FIVE
SEVENTY-SIX
SEVENTY-SEVEN
SEVENTY-EIGHT
SEVENTY-NINE
EIGHTY
EIGHTY-ONE
EIGHTY-TWO
EIGHTY-THREE
EIGHTY-FOUR
EIGHTY-FIVE
EIGHTY-SIX
EIGHTY-SEVEN
EIGHTY-EIGHT
EIGHTY-NINE
NINETY
NINETY-ONE
NINETY-TWO
NINETY-THREE
NINETY-FOUR
NINETY-FIVE
NINETY-SIX
NINETY-SEVEN
NINETY-EIGHT
NINETY-NINE
ONE-HUNDRED
ONE-HUNDRED ONE
ONE-HUNDRED TWO
ONE-HUNDRED THREE
ONE-HUNDRED FOUR
ONE-HUNDRED FIVE
ONE-HUNDRED SIX
ONE
Eight Years Ago
Donny Brewer pulled his jacket’s zipper all the way up, flipped his collar up, and unrolled his neck flap.
The late afternoon air was crisp, almost chilly.
He was on his bike. He had been racing down the street at top speed. The wind had cut into his face, stinging his eyes and burning the skin on his hands.
He rubbed his hands together and blew on them.
Donny wanted to bring a pair of gloves, but he feared the smell would get on his fingers and then his gloves. The last thing he wanted was any trace of the deed on himself.
He shoved his hand in his jacket pocket to confirm the contents inside.
The pack of cigarettes belonged to his father.
Donny was eleven years old, and if his father found out he had taken his smokes, he would whip him with his belt.
His mother would be heartbroken that her youngest child was already dabbling in nicotine. Donny’s older brother had already taken up their father’s bad habit.
His brother would get a good whooping for his actions, but then he would go back to smoking. His mother would beg him to quit. She was a smoker when she was younger. When her father died of lung cancer, she vowed to never touch another cigarette again. And she never did. But that did not keep the habit out of the house.
Donny’s father smoked three packs a day. He would even get up in the middle of the night to get a dose of nicotine. He was addicted to them, and there was nothing Donny’s mother could do to stop him.
Her last hope was Donny. She prayed the boy would see smoking’s ill effects. She would bring brochures into the house. She would tell him all about COPD—chronic obstructive pulmonary disease—which affected the lungs and could cause bronchitis, emphysema, and severe asthma. She would show him photos of damaged lungs that were so black they looked like they
had been burned on an open fire.
Donny was not stupid. He understood the side effects of smoking.
He was not going to smoke cigarettes for the rest of his life. He just wanted a puff to see what it tasted like, as well as to understand why it had consumed his father’s life to the point that he would stand in negative temperatures to smoke them.
But Donny could not try them at home.
His mother ran a sewing business from their basement. His father worked as a forklift operator, but he was currently unemployed. His brother was always getting suspended from school, so their father put him on “house arrest” as a form of punishment.
In short, Donny would be caught the moment he put the cigarette to his lips.
He needed a place that was quiet and away from the house.
He knew just the spot.
He pedaled as hard and fast as his legs would allow him.
Erie Lake was about a mile south of their residence. It was used by fishermen and casual boaters. On one side of the lake was a dock with boats, but on the other side was an area covered by dirt, trees, bushes, and other vegetation. The city had tried to sell it to a property developer with the hopes of building condos with a view of the water. But after an engineering company tested the soil, they discovered the foundation was not stable enough.
Now the city was trying to tout the land to homeowners to build cottages or second homes next to the lake. The city was in desperate need of money, and the property taxes from the homes would alleviate their financial difficulties.
So far, there were no biters.
Donny had heard his parents talk about it over dinner. His father was always coming up with ideas to strike it rich. He figured he could get neighbors and friends to loan him the money to buy the land and develop it himself.
It was wishful thinking, Donny knew. His father always had grand plans in his head, but they never made it to reality. He was too lazy and easily discouraged.
But from hearing them talk, he knew the area was away from prying eyes.
TWO
As he pedaled, a whistle hanging from a string around his neck bounced off his chest. His mother had given him a whistle in case he got in trouble. When she was a child, one of her cousins was abducted and never found. She feared the same could also happen to her children.
Donny was not worried about being kidnapped. He felt like he could handle himself if a situation like that ever arose. But to make his mother happy, he always kept the whistle on him.
He biked down a dirt path, cut through a grassy field, and then reached the lake. In the distance, across from the water, he could see the dock with the boats. They were too far for anyone to see what he was doing.
Plus, there were trees that shielded the view.
Donny smiled, happy about picking the perfect spot.
He stopped the bike, got off, and then walked the bike next to a tree. He shivered as a cold breeze hit him. The air was even chillier closer to the water.
He looked to his right. Farther away from the lake, he could see the chimney stacks on top of the roofs. The land right next to the water could not be developed, but that did not mean the land away from the lake could not be inhabited.
About thirty houses were walking distance from the water.
Donny doubted he would see anyone today. Even if he did, by the time they got to him, he would erase all trace of what he had done.
Speaking of which, he thought.
He quickly rubbed his palms together to warm them up. He then pulled the pack of cigarettes from his pocket, along with a lighter he had grabbed on his way out of the house.
He removed a cigarette from the pack and placed it between his lips, savoring the smell of nicotine.
He had seen his father light a smoke hundreds of times. He flicked the ball on the lighter, but no flame appeared. He flicked the ball again and again. After the umpteenth time, when his thumb was sore, a flame finally sparked.
He leaned close and let the flame burn the tip of the cigarette.
He took a deep breath, just like his father always did. He inhaled and let the smoke fill his mouth and lungs. Suddenly, his eyes welled up. His lungs felt like they were on fire.
I can’t breathe!
His vision blurred as he keeled over to let out whatever was inside his body.
He coughed violently.
For a few seconds, Donny felt like he was going to die.
After coughing so hard that his throat became raw, he finally took fresh air in. It tasted sweet.
He blinked to clear the tears from his eyes.
He looked down at the cigarette he held between his fingers. He dropped it in the dirt, stood up, and then smashed it with the heel of his boot.
Mom was right, he thought. Smoking will kill me.
He could taste the smoke in his mouth, and he wished he had brought a bottle of water to rinse it out.
He then had an idea. He walked farther along the path. He remembered from the last time he biked here that there was a spot where you could walk down to the lake.
He reached it and began making the descent when he saw a black object in the water.
He blinked and saw a woman chest-deep in the water. She was staring at something floating next to her.
He focused his gaze and realized it was a boy around his age, maybe younger. The boy’s arms and legs were spread apart, and his eyes were closed. His skin was grayish blue, almost like the water.
“Is he okay?” Donny asked, getting closer.
The woman was still for a moment. She finally looked at him. Her eyes were vacant.
“Do you want to join him?” she asked.
He froze in his tracks.
A smile curled her face. “Don’t worry. Come to me.”
She held her hand out to him.
He recoiled in horror.
Donny knew something was not right. He also knew he had to call for help.
He pulled the whistle out and blew into it with all his might.
THREE
Present Day
The black Volvo moved through traffic at the mandatory speed. Behind the wheel sat Detective Gregory Holt of the Milton Police Department. His six-foot-four, two-hundred-and-fifty-pound frame snugly fit the driver’s seat. Holt could have opted for an SUV, a 4x4, or even a minivan, but he preferred the sedan for its maneuverability.
He could squeeze through tight areas. He could park without worrying about someone dinging it with their doors. Most importantly, his wife, Nancy, had chosen the car at the dealership.
Holt had thick arms, thick hands, and a thick neck that made his shirt collar tight. He could always unbutton his collar, but that would look unprofessional. He could buy a larger size, but the shirt would hang loose around his body. He knew people who were always tucking in shirts that were a size too big. Holt did not want to look like a slob.
His eyes were small and black. They absorbed information at a swift pace, a skill that was essential to his profession. No detail was too small. Everything was open for examination. If something caught his attention, he would make a mental note of it. He never knew what information would lead him to solving a case.
Holt was on his way to the station when he had received the call. He quickly made a U-turn and headed in the opposite direction.
All he knew was that there had been a shooting at a women’s center. Emily’s Place helped women get into shelters, referred them for counseling, and assisted them in dealing with the police—anything to guide them in their moment of despair.
Holt was familiar with the center. As a beat cop, he was always dealing with some form of domestic violence. If the situation could not be resolved, he would personally drive the women to the center. There, in a safe environment, the women would be presented with all their options. They would never be forced to take a specific action. The women had every right to decline any suggestions made to them. The last thing the center wanted was to make the women feel even more helpless. Their du
ty was to the women and their well-being. They wanted to empower the women by making them more informed.
In Holt’s experience, a lot of the women would listen, agree to everything that was said to them, and then go right back to the volatile situation they had just come from. Holt knew of many instances of women being abused over and over because they could not muster the courage to walk away. He would get angry at their abusers, but even more angry at the women for being foolish to stay in an unhealthy and, in some cases, dangerous environment.
It took Holt years to understand that he could not make someone do something if they were not ready to do it in the first place. Until that person made a stand and said that enough was enough, there was very little anyone could do to help them.
But it was not from a lack of trying on Holt’s part. He would charge the abuser with all sorts of crimes, only to see them dismissed in court when the victim refused to testify against her abuser. In some cases, the victim would retract her statement and even go as far as accusing the police of coercing her into making the statement to begin with.
When he heard that a shooting had occurred at the center, the news shook him to the core. A place that was supposed to have been a refuge from violence was now hit with exactly that.
As he drove to Emily’s Place, he could not shake the feeling that something terrible had happened.
Why else would they call a homicide detective to the scene? he thought.
FOUR
Holt pulled into a parking lot with several parked cars. He spotted a police cruiser and stopped next to it.
Before stepping out, he rubbed his wedding ring three times—a private ritual he did before each new investigation. It was a reminder of why he chose to be a detective. He wanted to make the world a better place for his loved ones.
He spotted a uniformed officer who was in the process of securing the scene with yellow police tape. Holt walked over to him.
Officer Lance McConnell was tall with deep blue eyes and a prominent chin. His blonde hair was hidden underneath his police cap.
“Need a hand?” Holt asked.
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