by Steven Dunne
Brook drove through the dark, feeling despair and exhaustion washing through him. Christmas Eve and he was going home to an empty house and a cold bed while the rest of the world embraced.
When he saw the Fiat blocking his driveway he nearly wept with joy. He ran into the steamy warmth of the kitchen and into Terri’s arms before she’d even had a chance to put down her wine glass.
‘Am I glad to see you.’
‘What a welcome, Dad,’ she said, giggling. She extricated herself from his bear hug to look him over. ‘You look terrible and you stink of smoke.’
‘There was a fire.’
‘A fire?’
‘I’m exhausted, Terri,’ he said, sagging on to a chair. ‘Or I was until I saw you.’
She poured him a glass of wine. ‘Thought you had nothing important on.’
‘So did I,’ replied Brook.
‘I’ve got fish pie in the oven,’ she said.
‘Great,’ said Brook, not registering.
‘We’ve time for a few drinks and you can tell me all about this shooting,’ she said with a stern expression. ‘Honestly, Dad. I thought I’d done something wrong.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he replied mechanically, not taking his eyes from her. ‘I’m a stupid, selfish old man.’
‘No argument here,’ she laughed. Brook managed a washed-out smile. ‘Jesus, Dad. You’re almost catatonic. What have you been doing?’
He shook his head to consign the last two weeks to the past, feeling the tension begin to fall away. ‘I’ve been investigating the investigators,’ he mumbled. ‘Tough beat.’
‘Well, it’s Christmas now, Dad.’ She raised her glass, smiling. ‘So here’s to a better day tomorrow.’
‘Yes.’ Brook looked up at her and nodded. ‘A better day tomorrow.’
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
About the Book
About the Author
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Epigraph
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
