Storm Lines
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Storm Lines
Synopsis
Constable Bridget “Marley” Marlowe is always doing the wrong thing for the right reason. This time she’s skating the line of police procedure by protecting a young girl caught up in her father’s designer street drug ring. But when Marley gets injured, she needs help from someone she can trust.
Dr. Devon Wolfe is a burned out psychologist on leave from her job in a busy hospital trauma unit. When Devon meets the injured Marley, she doesn’t know what to make of the bright and beautiful—and occasionally rogue—cop. Devon decides to help Marley and gets mixed up in the world of addictive street drugs, a young girl who knows something but won’t speak, and the uncertainty of knowing right from wrong. All Devon knows is she and Marley are in this together.
Praise for Jessica L. Webb
Shadowboxer
“Intense, realistic story about two lost loves who find each other during a fight for justice.”—Katharine Culp, Bookseller
This is an excellent tension filled suspense novel with a strong romantic thread that adds to the overall sense of anticipation. The combination of the kids unease, the emotional withdrawal of one of Jordan’s key team and the building expectation of some violent act, mixed in with a classic “will they/won’t they rekindle their old love” romance gives this a wonderful atmosphere and is excellently written and paced.”—Lesbian Reading Room
“As heavy as the subject is about kids that are in desperate need of better representation and social services this book gives you lightness and hope as well. At times this book is heavy but the counterbalances are done well. The secondary characters add so much to the book but never out shadow the mains. That is hard to pull off and Webb did it flawlessly. More than anything this one keeps you hooked.”—Romantic Reader Blog
Lambda Literary Award Winner Pathogen
“Where did Jessica Webb come from? This is the second Dr. Kate Morrison book, the first is Trigger, and it was amazing. A reader should really read them in order, because they are both fantastic. I would sign up today to read the next ten books Webb writes.”—Amanda’s Reviews
Troop 18
“Troop 18 is the third in the Dr. Kate Morrison series and is another winner…The story is a fascinating mystery that had me stumped and I loved how it was told in a very understated way with so much going on under the surface.”—Kitty Kat’s Book Review Blog
“Jessica Webb, you are so good! I love a book that makes you feel, even if it hurts.”—The Romantic Reader
Trigger
“The book reads very well and is full of heart pounding, adrenaline racing moments. I have zero clue if human bombs can be actually made, but Webb 100% sold me on the possibility through her story. I was held captive throughout the book, desperately needing to know how this was all resolved…This book has action out the wazoo, but it doesn’t stop there. Mystery, intrigue, and a fantastic couple are in full force as well.”—The Romantic Reader
“[A] really clever, intricate, and extremely well developed story line that has conspiracies, betrayals, and enough excitement to whet any reader’s appetite. I cannot commend this book highly enough.”—Inked Rainbow Reads
Lambda Literary Award Finalist Repercussions
“[A]lthough this is such an action-packed book, Webb still balanced it with some romance in such a way that the chemistry leaps off the pages in this intense, steamy kind of way. Webb is someone you can count on for accuracy and realism in her books, which I love because it makes it so much easier to fall into the story and forget the world around you. Her dialogue is well written and sounds conversationalist. She has a fast pace, good writing style, developed characters, plenty of action, and an exciting plot.”—Artistic Bent
“I loved this book! The author has balanced suspense and romance perfectly. The plot is edge-of-your-seat exciting. The writing immerses the reader. The action is plentiful with lots of twists and turns and there are some very interesting, creative ideas within the book.”—Melina Bickard, Librarian (Waterloo Library, London)
“Repercussions by Jessica L. Webb is nothing short of phenomenal. This book is everything you want and more. It is one delicious story, with amazing characters and an exciting plot…I could go on for days about how freaking fantastic this one is. All of Webb’s books are home runs, but somehow, someway, she took it to the next level with Repercussions. This book is going to hook you on by the first chapter. A roller coaster ride of awesomeness is awaiting you with this book.”—The Romantic Reader
“Jessica L. Webb can write a psychological thriller like no other in lesfic. This is her fourth book, and every time she manages to deliver an amazing story…She’s one of a few authors that I trust she’s going to take me on an imaginative and entertaining journey. Ms. Webb delivers again a pair of multilayered and authentic main characters with amazing chemistry and a plot with enough twist and turns to keep the reader turning pages.”—Lez Review
Storm Lines
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Storm Lines
© 2020 By Jessica L. Webb. All Rights Reserved.
ISBN 13: 978-1-63555-627-8
This Electronic Original Is Published By
Bold Strokes Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 249
Valley Falls, NY 12185
First Edition: July 2020
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Credits
Editors: Jerry L. Wheeler and Stacia Seaman
Production Design: Stacia Seaman
Cover Design by Tammy Seidick
eBook Design by Toni Whitaker
By the Author
Dr. Kate Morrison Thriller Series
Trigger
Pathogen
Troop 18
Repercussions
Shadowboxer
Storm Lines
Acknowledgments
Thank you to Bold Strokes Books for everything you do to create community and a space for queer books. Huge thank you to Jerry L. Wheeler, not only for being an incredible editor, but for providing all the words I needed to hear when things got hard. Thanks to Katie, beta reader and bestie. And thanks to readers for sharing in the joy of my stories.
For my wife, Jen. You make me happy every single day.
Prologue
Water streamed and gushed, the sound swirling and eddying in rhythm with the pain in Marley’s side. It was too fast, too constant, too loud. Marley couldn’t think. Every thought was a thickness, sluggish like her heartbeat. The rain was warm, too warm. Mixed with the blood pooling on her lap. Rain filled her eyes, dripped down her face. The rain had soaked through her clothes long ago. Maybe she’d been sitting here for hours, dirty concrete beneath her wet jeans. The pipe above her spewed dirty rainwater from the roof. Marley thought about moving but she couldn’t. Her body refused the message from her brain, and she didn’t want to break the cocoon of warmth. Summer rain and her own blood. Ugly and peaceful.
She shouldn’t be here, though. Something important was in that thought. More important than the knife wound in her side, the bruises on her neck, or the pain in her hands. Fault and blame formed a sharp line, dividing her world into then and now, into consciousne
ss and sleep. Marley shuddered, the first movement she’d made in a long time. She shouldn’t be here in this alley in the rain. The knife should never have come between them. It was the last in a long line of mistakes.
Marley moaned, and the sound dislodged some of the heaviness. The effort to open her eyes felt huge and impossible. Her body felt numb, the hurt replaced by nothingness. Move. Move. But nothing happened, and Marley could only be grateful her tears didn’t mix with the warmth of the rain and blood before she slipped down into sleepiness. Summer rain pattered against her neck, the sound of the water out of the drainpipe receded, and Constable Bridget Marlowe lost her fight with consciousness.
Chapter One
Everything was fine until it wasn’t.
Devon Wolfe dodged the hypocrisy of the thought even as she dodged puddles on the nearly empty streets. She was thankful the rain had driven most people indoors or into cafés or cabs. She and her somber black umbrella had the sidewalk to themselves. The rain meant she had a reason to keep her head down and avoid looking at anything other than the square of sidewalk in front of her.
Agoraphobia was tough.
An aversion, not a phobia.
She’d patiently explained that to her therapist last week. Devon had developed an aversion to being out in public. She had no real sense of dread or panic. She was just strongly disinclined to be out of her house and around other people. Temporarily. Everything was fine.
Except it wasn’t. Hence the therapist.
Devon skirted the edge of another brackish puddle on the sidewalk. She pictured her therapist, Ash. She was young, not even thirty, and her streaked brown hair, heavy tattoos, and infectious grin made her look even younger. Ash did not care about Devon’s distinction between aversion and phobia. She didn’t care Devon was a psychologist who had spent her last five years focused on the mental wellness of the entire health care team at Hamilton’s busiest trauma centre. No, Ash only cared about digging down into why everything had started crumbling in Devon’s world and how she was going to rebuild. Devon cared about getting back to work.
That’s where she was heading now, a meeting with Human Resources to discuss her return. She hoped for another month of leave, and then a gradual reentry. Allow some time to build up her stamina again, to carry the weight of others’ pain. To run the programs meant to keep front line health workers at work and feeling okay without running herself into the ground again.
Another gust of rain tugged at Devon’s umbrella. She wiped her hand on her pants, a useless gesture since she was soaked. Maybe walking today had been a bad idea, but she hadn’t wanted to be trapped in her car then trapped in an office. Just then a delivery truck sprayed water as it sped down King Street, and Devon edged closer to the buildings, eventually stepping into a small alley. The world greyed as the truck roared past in a fascinating, disgusting spray of dirty water. An odd vacuum of sensation followed the truck’s passing, and then she heard a whimper of breath.
Devon peered down the alley toward the bare, hurt sound. She could see a pair of legs, boots and jeans, sticking out from behind one of the bins. The legs moved in a convulsive twitch and then went still. Devon entered the alley, the sound of the street swallowed by the brick and stone and concrete. She heard whimpering again, a moan. Devon’s breath felt trapped in her chest.
It was a woman, maybe thirty. She was bleeding, her white button-up shirt soaked with rain and blood. Dark blond hair was plastered against her face, her skin pale except for the dark patches of trapped blood. The bruises made Devon angry, the blood made her scared. The woman’s eyes were half closed, her eyelids flicking rapidly. Was this a good sign or bad? Devon knelt in the puddle made by the gushing downspout.
“Hey, I’m going to get you some help.”
She raised her voice to be heard above the storm and the interminable gushing of the downspout. The woman didn’t respond. Devon dialed 9-1-1, hunching her shoulder, trying to keep her phone dry in the downpour. She answered eleven questions about the time and place and the patient’s condition. The woman was still now. Even her eyelids barely flickered, and Devon’s chest went tight with an odd, disassociated panic. Devon reached for the woman, pressing her fingers gently against her neck, feeling the warmth and strength of the artery. The woman groaned, and her arms collapsed to the ground, moving restlessly, shakily. Devon realized the woman was trying to sit up.
“Hold still,” Devon said, the gentlest of commands. “I’ve called an ambulance. They won’t be long.”
The woman didn’t seem to hear as she lurched forward and gasped, her eyes flying open as if suddenly aware of every pain and assault to her body. Devon leaned in when self-preservation told her to move away. She put a hand on the woman’s shoulder, crouching lower to get into her line of sight.
“Easy. You’re hurt. The ambulance isn’t far. Sit back. Easy.”
The woman leaned back, and she seemed even paler than when Devon had arrived. Devon felt the sickness of worry, the heaviness of responsibility.
The woman closed her eyes and groaned, the attempt at sitting up causing her blood to seep again. The sight of fresh blood had stopped affecting Devon long ago. The smell of it, though, earthy and primal and wrong, still made her pause.
Devon considered what she had that could possibly stop this flow of bleeding. Nothing—everything was soaked. She picked up the woman’s hand and placed it over her abdomen. Then she placed her own hands on top and pressed, slowly and with a mimicked sureness.
“My name is Devon,” she said, hoping to distract the woman from the pain. “I work at Centennial Hospital, and I know someone is going to be here any minute.”
“Doctor?” The woman’s voice was low and scratchy.
Devon smiled. “Not the kind that will help all that much currently.”
She applied a little more pressure, and the woman’s eyes dimmed with pain as her body slumped. Devon wondered if she’d passed out. She didn’t think she’d lost enough blood to be dangerous, but what did she know? A psychologist who worked in an ER didn’t know much about emergency medicine. A broken psychologist. Who used to work in the ER.
The faint stirring of sirens sounded above the din of receding rain. Hope bubbled in Devon’s chest, but she kept even pressure on the woman’s wound. She prepared herself for the lecture she was going to get on universal precautions. She scanned the woman’s face—her lips were moving, but she seemed to have no energy for sound.
“What’s that?” Devon said. “I didn’t quite catch it.”
The woman moved her free hand to her pocket and pawed weakly.
Devon reached past the woman’s hand into her pocket, aware of the unasked-for intimacy of every shared movement. She pulled out a wallet and flicked it open. A thin black wallet was tucked inside. A badge, Hamilton Police.
“This makes things interesting, doesn’t it?” Devon said. The woman gave the hint of a smile. Her eyes were a greyish blue, and Devon could see a world of hurt there.
Devon looked back at the wallet.
“Constable Bridget Marlowe,” she read.
The woman closed her eyes. “Marley,” she said, the name quiet but distinct.
“Marley,” Devon said. She placed the wallet on Marley’s lap and put her hand back to apply pressure. Marley flinched but made no sound.
The sirens were loud and constant, and Devon knew this odd, dark isolation of theirs would soon be broken. Sound filled the alley first, then people and equipment and the hustle of competence. The first paramedic crouched shoulder to shoulder with Devon and listened to everything she’d seen and done in the last ten minutes. Then he took over, Devon thanked him, and she stepped back, allowing the scene to unfold as it was meant to. As it always did, with Devon offering silent support in the background.
* * *
Marley’s pain pulled her into consciousness, but she refused to open her eyes. She could use a few more minutes before she needed to evaluate the damage—the double layers of stitches to close the
knife wound in her side, the bruises on her neck and the soreness of her throat, the ache at the base of her skull. And now the IV jabbed into her left hand. Marley sighed. There was more than just the damage to her body to evaluate.
“Faker.”
Marley opened her eyes. She was in a semiprivate room, the curtains drawn around the hospital beds in a sad attempt at privacy. Marley’s sister, Audrey, was sitting in the plastic visitor chair drawn close to the bed. She had her phone in her hand, and she tapped away while looking at Marley. Audrey looked worried. And mad.
“Shut up,” Marley croaked through her dry, sore throat. Not a great comeback, but it’s what she could manage.
Audrey grinned and stood, pouring Marley some water. She waited for Marley to take a sip before she spoke. “I’ve told Mom you’re awake. So, prepare yourself for the onslaught.”
Marley groaned and closed her eyes. She wasn’t sure which she was dreading more—answering to her mother or her sergeant. At least she’d seen Sergeant Crawford already. He’d come into the ER as they’d decided to admit her for a day or two to watch for infection. He’d listened gravely to the doctor’s assessment of her injuries, asked a few questions in his deep voice, then stated he could get a full report later and that he would phone her emergency contact himself. That’s when Marley had closed her eyes. Looked like her reprieve was over.
“Mom sent you?” Marley said.