#1-3--The O’Connells

by Lorhainne Eckhart

  “What is this?” Ryan asked.

  She just shrugged as she rested her hands on the edge of the box. “I don’t know. There’s no key, or I couldn’t find one. I tried to open it with a letter opener, but I couldn’t get it to budge.”

  She could hear Marcus talking and heard the back of the truck open, then the clunk of something that sounded like a ramp being pulled. Ryan rummaged in his pockets, maybe for something to open the box, and finally pulled a key off his keychain. It looked like something for a pair of cuffs.

  For a second, as he worked the lock, she wanted him to stop.

  “Jenny…” Marcus called out.

  She turned and took in the dark man waiting outside, wearing a ballcap and worn jeans. The back of the van was open.

  “You want to keep anything here?” he said.

  She just took it all in, focusing on the artwork in the corner, which was all wrapped. She knew they were worth something.

  Just then, she heard a siren.

  “Marcus,” the guy called out.

  As she followed him outside the storage unit, she took in the scene. Four Atlanta PD cars had pulled up, and cops were stepping out. Marcus was already walking their way, but one of the cops stopped him and held up a paper.

  “We have a warrant,” one said to her and Ryan. “Please step out of the unit.”

  Jenny, for the second time in her life, felt a bone-chilling fear at seeing cops. As they stepped into the unit, it hit her that whatever they were looking for could ruin her life or her daughter’s.

  “What’s going on here?” said an approaching detective. Jenny recognized her from the initial investigation—Detective Hargrave, she thought. Her blond hair was cut in a short bob, and she had blue eyes and wore a bulletproof vest over a T-shirt and a holstered gun. She was about the same height as Jenny and was staring right at her.

  Meanwhile, Marcus was talking to another cop, and Ryan had walked over to their car. As he closed the door, she wasn’t sure what he was doing, but he quickly stepped over beside her and slid his arm around her. She knew the detective didn’t miss the motion.

  “Since I don’t live here anymore, we’re cleaning out the locker,” Jenny said. “This is what’s left of my husband’s things.” She wanted to pat herself on the back for sounding so calm even though her heart was hammering. She could feel herself trembling, though, mainly because she still didn’t have a clue what was in the boxes. “The question I have, Detective, is why are you here?”

  The cops were in the storage unit, and one of them was in the box they had just opened, the one holding dozens of files Wren had kept on the kind of people who had a lot of influence, people who made things happen.

  “Detective, over here,” one of the cops called out.

  Ryan was quiet beside her, just watching the cops in the storage locker.

  “Just a minute,” was all Hargrave said before heading over.

  Jenny was kicking herself for keeping all those papers, files, and God knew what else. It was just one more action that could end up costing her in ways she didn’t want to imagine.

  Marcus made his way over. “What are they looking at?” he asked her. “What was in that box?”

  She shrugged. “Files and stuff Wren had on people, important people… I don’t know.”

  The cops were opening all the boxes, going through one and then another. She couldn’t explain what happened next: Hargrave handed one of the files to another cop, who walked out and strode to an unmarked car. Then, as if that was all they needed, all of the cops were leaving.

  “Like, what the hell…?” Marcus said under his breath. The glance he exchanged with Ryan conveyed the same confusion she felt. “Detective, can I have a word with you?” he said and started after Hargrave, who was speaking with two of the other cops. She looked over at Jenny.

  “I have a bad feeling about this,” Jenny said.

  “Yeah, well…” was all Ryan replied. The detective started back over to them. Behind her, Marcus was shaking his head.

  “We have everything we need,” Hargrave said. Then, as if she didn’t know what else to say, she asked, “You’ll be emptying the rest of the locker?”

  “Yes, we will,” Ryan said.

  Hargrave nodded, and then she and the cops were in their cars, their flashing lights now off as they pulled away.

  “What was that about?” Ryan asked.

  Marcus appeared frustrated and grim. “All I know is your husband must have had a file on someone pretty important. My guess is that whoever it is has ties to the Atlanta PD, and this is their way of making sure it never sees the light of day.”

  “So you’re saying they weren’t looking for something to pin his murder on me or my daughter?” she said. “What about Troy’s lawyer?”

  Marcus just shook his head and rubbed his hand over the back of his neck. “I’ve seen a lot of things, but that was one of the strangest. In case they change their minds and decide to come back, let’s clean this up. We’ll get rid of everything so there’s no next time—and if there is something in there, we can make sure it’ll never be found.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “What are you doing inside the house? Everyone’s outside,” Ryan said, taking in Alison, who was lingering in the living room. They were at his mom’s house, and she was in a sundress that stopped just above the knees, soft cotton and sleeveless. He had to remind himself not to tell her how nice she looked. Even though his mom and sisters could, he couldn’t, because she was still in that stage of wanting to make his life a living hell if he said anything nice to her.

  “Just looking around,” she said, touching the figurines on the shelves.

  He could hear the laughter from out back, where Owen was barbecuing and Suzanne, Karen, his mom, and Jenny were sitting around the patio table, drinking wine. Marcus was working the night shift, and he couldn’t help the ache that filled his gut as he stared at the empty spot on the corner of the sofa where Luke would sit when he was on leave.

  Where he was, Ryan didn’t know, and he had no idea when he’d be home.

  “So you grew up here?” Alison said. “Your mom said you used to get in trouble a lot.”

  He wasn’t sure if he pulled a face as he crossed his arms and stepped into the living room with her, hearing the tick of the old clock on the wall. “My mom shouldn’t be sharing all our old horror stories. We were kids, we got in trouble, but we pulled it together,” he said. “You went to school today. How was it?”

  She just shrugged, and the way she did it seemed so much like her mom. “It’s school. It’s boring. So, Mom said you’re moving in.”

  There it was. He wondered where her head was on the subject.

  “I am. Told you that was the plan. You okay with that?”

  “Whatever.” She didn’t look at him, though he was pretty sure that was code for That’s great. “You won’t hurt my mom, will you?”

  He took another step closer to her, then another, seeing the way she stood her ground. “I’m not Wren. I think you know that. I won’t hurt you or your mom. Besides, you’ve seen my family. You think they would let me get away with something like that?”

  For the first time, he thought she smiled. She shook her head and rolled her shoulders as if relaxing a bit. “I guess you’re right. I like your family.”

  Had she just complimented him? Kind of, in a way.

  “I like my family too, Alison—but in case no one has told you this, they’re your family as well.”

  She nodded and allowed her deep brown eyes to take him in. They turned serious for a second. “You know my dad, I mean, Wren, had things on my mom, on other people…”

  He knew she was talking about the files he’d quickly looked through, the ones the cops hadn’t taken. The one they had…well, all he knew was that it must’ve been about someone important. Marcus had said he’d have the rest shredded and burned. The furniture had been donated to Goodwill, and the artwork had been given to the children’s
hospital. The storage unit was now empty, and there was nothing that could come back on Jenny or Alison.

  Then there was the locked box he’d smuggled into the car after the cops arrived. He had opened it up at his house, and he was still sick from the images of shackled naked women he’d found inside. Wren was one sick bastard, and far from the typical asshole.

  “I know, but you don’t have to worry,” he said. “Your uncle Marcus and I took care of everything. You know you can talk to me about anything. Whatever you say to me won’t go anywhere. We can talk about Wren, anything you saw that maybe you don’t understand…?”

  She shrugged, and he could see how uncomfortable she was. “He’s dead, but you’re not,” she said.

  The way she looked up to him had him stepping over closer to her, really taking her in. “In case no one told you, Alison, you look really nice.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Okay, now you’re going to ruin it and I’m going to have to change. Mom!” she shouted, then started to walk out of the room, but she stopped just outside the kitchen and looked back to him.

  “Hey, I’ll take it back if you want me to,” he called out. “Seriously, don’t be so damn prickly.”

  She was considering something, and then she glanced over her shoulder to him again, though she didn’t turn around, because that would be giving him everything. “In case I didn’t say it, I’m glad you’re moving in…Dad,” she said. Then she left and was out the door in the backyard, and he was stunned.

  His pain-in-the-ass teenager had just called him Dad. Things were definitely beginning to look up.

  About this book

  Deputy Marcus O’Connell is blindsided one night after a series of calls comes in from an unknown number, and the caller on the other end is a child. All he knows is she’s six years old, her name is Eva, and there’s someone in her house who wants to hurt her.

  * * *

  Marcus is the ultimate bad boy turned deputy. He knows everything about how to get away with something, considering he was one of the middle of the six O’Connell siblings. He never had responsibility resting on his shoulders like his brother Owen, and he’s never been the center of attention like his little sister, Suzanne. Marcus knows how to find trouble and talk his way out of it.

  * * *

  Now, as the head deputy for the Livingston sheriff’s office, he knows everything about everybody, and no one can pull anything over on him. It’s why he’s such a damn good deputy. But even Marcus dreads what cops know as the third call.

  * * *

  When Marcus takes the call the first time, he thinks it’s a prank. The second time, he knows there’s a problem. The third time the call comes in and is patched through to him, he knows it’s something he can’t ignore. The only thing is, the girl is terrified and keeps hanging up, and Marcus knows someone is in the house with her.

  * * *

  Where are her parents, and who is this mysterious girl who needs his help?

  Chapter One

  Deputy Marcus O’Connell took another swallow of Suzanne’s favorite local stout and wondered how his sister could drink the stuff. He’d never taken to heavy dark beer, preferring lighter lagers, and he was drinking it now only because she’d ordered two and slid one over to him just after he got there. Now, she was making her way over to one of the firefighters, Lieutenant Toby Chandler.

  “Stop staring at them,” said Sheriff Osbert Berry, Bert for short, who was sitting on the same stool at the end of the bar where he always sat, nursing the ale on tap. Marcus hadn’t known he was paying attention.

  “I’m not staring. I’m observing. There’s a difference.” He leaned on the bar, having to glance back over his shoulder to Bert, who seemed to have packed on a few more pounds as of late. He already had a hefty frame for a man in his sixties, and it appeared he hadn’t shaved in days.

  “Bullshit, Marcus,” Bert said. “You’re staring them down with that look you have that makes everyone nervous. She’s flirting, blowing off steam. Let her have some fun, and remember, son, you’re talking to the man who wrote the book on staring down numbskulls whose asses you want to kick. I trained you. I know you better than anyone.”

  For a second, Bert smiled almost fondly over at Suzanne, who he still couldn’t believe was making eyes at Toby. Why couldn’t she see that his only redeeming quality was the fact that he showed up for work? His sister was one of the best firefighters in Livingston, and if push came to shove, it would be her Marcus wanted saving his ass, not the asshole she was making eyes at.

  “I mean, look at him,” Marcus said, “the way he looks down at her with that flashy plastic smile he puts on for every girl. Why the hell can’t she see the guy’s a player, shallow, got nothing going for him? Lost count of the number of times I’ve told her to look anywhere else. She’s been with the department longer, yet he got the promotion to lieutenant last week. Give you three guesses as to why he got it and not her.”

  He dragged his gaze back down the bar as his sister tossed her hair over her shoulder and shrugged, flirting. He had to look away. The sheriff was softly chuckling under his breath, then polished off the pint in front of him and gestured to Ken, the bartender and owner of the Lighthouse bar, a silver-haired former golden-gloves fighter and someone else he had to keep an eye on.

  “What, you mean just because he’s a strapping young white man who has the same last name as the former chief?” Bert said as Ken slid him another pint. He nodded in thanks, then lifted his gaze to Marcus, who was counting the number of pints he’d downed—five or six, he thought. “Take a look in the mirror, son. Some could say the same about you.” Bert’s blue eyes were bloodshot with the sorrow that seemed to be a part of him now, so many months since he’d put his wife in the ground.

  “Seriously, what the hell does that have to do with anything?” Marcus said. “I’m fucking good at what I do, and I didn’t step over anyone or have anything handed to me. Doors weren’t all that open for me, if you recall.”

  In fact, he was one of the six O’Connell kids, the brood who had been known as walking trouble—the kind of reputation their mom had warned them would be forever burned in the townsfolk’s minds. He had frequently found himself in trouble as a kid, so much so that Bert had taken to picking him up immediately whenever someone did something, just to save time tracking him down. Constantly being one step from juvie had made him pick up on the kinds of things everyone else missed. Whether at accidents or crime scenes, he now had a sixth sense, just knowing who had done what before anyone could even make notes or grab a coffee. Maybe he just knew exactly how someone living a life of crime would think. If he didn’t know the who, he just about always knew the why and the how.

  The sheriff lifted his hand to stop him. “Just making a point is all, Marcus. You think I don’t know all that? Well, what I know doesn’t matter. People forget all that when shit hits the fan. We’re not all balanced and politically correct and everything—and that kind of thing now matters, as was pointed out to me this morning by the city council.” Bert gave him a significant glance.

  Marcus gave everything to the old man he’d once looked up to. “What exactly was pointed out and by who?” he said, then looked down at the dark stout. He just couldn’t make himself drink it, so he pushed it away. What had his sister been thinking, ordering it for him? Oh, yeah, she’d been distracted over Toby at the other end of the bar. Just then, Toby lifted his chin to Marcus as if they were friends, so he dragged his gaze back over to the sheriff, who leaned on the bar and lifted his pint of ale to take another swallow.

  “Oh, you know,” Bert said, “the same old crew, the mayor and all his cronies. Apparently, they want to see us more diverse and colorful. We’ve been told to hire a woman for the open deputy position.”

  For a second, he wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. “What open deputy position?”

  Bert made a face. “The one the city council advised me of. Apparently, the backlog of paperwork and reports, budgets and stuff�
��ones I supposedly finished, signed, and submitted—showed that for the first time, the sheriff’s office is actually in the black when it comes to closing cases. In fact, we’re listed among the top fifty offices with the lowest numbers of unsolved crimes, or something along those lines, for whoever comes up with that kind of stuff. Funny thing is, though, I couldn’t remember submitting all that paperwork.”

  Marcus wasn’t sure what to say. The sheriff seemed to consider something as he looked around the bar. “Look, Sheriff…” he started before the old man rested his beer on the bar and cut him off.

  “I know you’ve been covering for me,” he said. “I know you’re the one who’s made sure everyone is getting where they need to be, getting the office staffed, giving tickets to keep the revenue coming in, making sure cases are being closed and lines aren’t being crossed so this place stays safe. You make sure all the Ts are crossed and no one fucks up anywhere. I knew it was you, always did. In case I haven’t said it, thank you. My head hasn’t been in it, you know…” He stopped talking, and that sadness returned. So did the knot in Marcus’s stomach as he thought of the day the call had come in. Peach Berry had had a heart attack at the hair salon while getting her roots done. The dye had still been in her hair. His sister had been first on the scene, and he’d been second. He didn’t think he’d ever forget the way the old man had cried.

  “Stop it,” Marcus said. “It’s what we do. So we get extra help now? Good. I guess as long as it’s someone who can do the job and is qualified…”

  Case in point in terms of a lack of qualifications, in his mind, was Toby Chandler at the end of the bar, who was not only flirting openly with his sister but also taking in every hot woman in the room.