by Pandora Pine
“Ten? Can you get the alarm? My arms are full!” Ronan called from the hall.
Ten sure as hell hoped his husband’s arms were full with dinner. He was starving, and it was nearly 7:30pm. He raced from the kitchen through the living room, past his husband, who he noticed was not carrying take-out bags. Ten punched in the alarm code and locked the door.
After what had happened in the last few months with Ronan being shot on their front steps, it wasn’t like him to be too preoccupied to lock the door and arm the alarm. Whatever it was his husband was carrying had his full and undivided attention.
When Ten walked into the kitchen, Ronan was unpacking several large accordion folders. There were stacks of papers all over their dining room table. From where he was standing, one pile looked like newspaper articles. The next looked like police and evidence reports, and the last stack looked like a trial transcript. Why on earth would Ronan have one of those? Had he been asked to look into an appeal of some sort? “Ronan, what-?”
“Oh, good, you’re home,” Ronan said distractedly. “We’ve got a lot to talk about.” He went back to sorting through his ton of papers without even looking up at Tennyson.
Ten got his first good look at his husband and didn’t like what he saw at all. Ronan’s usually tame dirty-blond hair was sticking up all over the place as if he’d been carding his hands through it all day. His white dress shirt was half tucked into his pants and his tie was loosened crookedly. Ronan was a mess. Combine that with his near manic shuffling of papers and Tennyson was worried. He set his hands on Ronan’s shoulders and gently pulled him back from the table. “Ronan?”
“Ten, what? Can’t you see I’m busy here?” Ronan’s eyes flashed annoyance at his husband.
“You just said you had a lot to talk to me about. Why don’t you start with explaining what all of this is and why it has you in a near manic state. You’re a disaster. When was the last time you ate something?” Ten grimaced. There was probably a better way he could have said that, but there were also worse ways. His husband looked like he was homeless or like he’d lost his shirt gambling at the track.
Ronan looked confused like he had no idea when his last meal was. “That’s not important right now. This is.”
Ten sighed. “Okay, what is this?”
“It’s The Riverside Ripper case.” Ronan fisted his hands on his hips.
“It’s the what?” Ten vaguely remembered that moniker, but for the life of him couldn’t remember what the case was about. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good. When the word “Ripper” was attached to a murder, it usually meant the scene had been especially gory.
“The Riverside Ripper.” Ronan rolled his eyes as if Tennyson should have remembered the case off the top of his head. “Lorraine McAlpin was stabbed to death and her body was left on the banks of the Mystic River in Charlestown three years ago.”
Ten nodded. That name rang a bell now that he had a bit more context. “Wasn’t someone arrested and convicted of that crime?” It was all coming back to him now. A pretty brunette swam into focus in his mind’s eye.
Ronan nodded. “His name is Tom Hutchins.”
Ten frowned. “I’m confused then. How is this a cold case if someone has been arrested and convicted? Did Lorraine’s family reach out to you at the precinct?” Ten would be more than happy to reunite Lorraine’s family with the murdered woman.
“No, Lorraine’s family didn’t reach out to us. Tom Hutchins did. He sent me a letter. I drove down to see him at MCI-Cedar Junction today.”
Tennyson’s blood ran cold. Ronan spent the day in a prison filled with killers and rapists and hadn’t told him he was going? “You did what?” He took a deep breath hoping that would calm his racing heart down enough to hear Ronan’s answer.
“I went to see Tank Hutchins at the prison.” Ronan made it sound like going to a prison to see a killer was something he did every day.
“Tank?” Ten shook his head, feeling lost. “I thought you said his name was Tom?”
Ronan rolled his eyes. “His friends and family call him Tank.”
“Oh, so you’re a friend now? You’re friends with a convicted murderer?” Tennyson felt like he’d walked into an episode of The Twilight Zone. What the hell was going on with his husband? For the last thirteen years Ronan’s mission in life had been to put criminal behind bars, now all of a sudden, Ronan was trying to get a killer out?
“It’s not a big deal, Ten. Tank wasn’t even in handcuffs.” Ronan shrugged.
“Not in handcuffs? He’s a convicted murderer!” Tennyson’s voice was shrill. He could feel his own panic rising. What the hell was going on with his husband? It wasn’t so long ago that he was lying in a hospital bed with three bullets in his chest. Was this a result of that? He hadn’t died so now he felt he was bulletproof? Unstoppable? Ten couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“He needs our help, Ten.” Ronan sat down at the table and looked up at his husband.
“And what, you want to give it to him? You want to use my gift to help this cold-blooded killer?” Tennyson’s head was spinning.
“Yes,” Ronan said simply. “He’s innocent. I don’t have your sixth sense, but I have thirteen years of my own gut instinct to follow and it’s telling me this man didn’t kill anyone.”
“If he’s innocent, who killed Lorraine McAlpin?” Jesus Christ, Ronan wanted him to use his gift to help a killer? What the hell was next? Ronan asking for this week’s Powerball numbers? Tennyson was beside himself.
“His twin brother, Tim, killed Lorraine. It’s the only other explanation.” Ronan pawed through the paperwork until he found what he was looking for and held it up.
“What?” This sounded like one of those Law and Order ripped-from-the-headlines episodes. Tennyson shook his head. He had no idea what Ronan was holding up for him to see. He assumed it was a DNA report or a birth certificate for the twin. It could be a report saying that fucking aliens had landed at Fenway Park for all the fucks he had to give at this moment in time.
“He has a twin brother named Tim. There was DNA found on Lorraine’s body. The killer cut himself during the attack. If it wasn’t Tank who killed her, it had to be Tim.” Ronan stood up. “Look, I brought everything home to show you.” He spread his arms wide. “Newspaper articles. Police reports. Evidence reports. I even called a buddy at the court and had a copy of the trial transcript sent over. We can call out for Thai and dig into this all tonight.”
Ten shook his head. “No!” The absolute last thing he wanted to do after the long day he’d had was to dig into evidence reports and a murder trial transcript. He wanted dinner, a bath, and possibly a quickie hand job before he fell asleep with his head on his husband’s shoulder.
“What do you mean, ‘no?’” Ronan growled, looking dumbfounded. “We need to help this man.”
“I don’t need to help anyone.” Tennyson shook his head.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Ronan’s eyes narrowed at his husband.
“What’s wrong with me?” Tennyson shouted. “I’m not the one who spent the day in a prison without telling you. Did Fitzgibbon sign off on this little field trip?”
A guilty look flashed across Ronan’s face.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Ronan! You walked into a prison filled with the worst among us and no one fucking knew where you were? Are you crazy?” Ten was starting to feel like he was the one losing his mind. None of this made any sense. Why had his usually level-headed husband suddenly lost his marbles?
“Why are you so upset about this? I was perfectly safe.”
“Upset? Upset!” Ten’s head felt like it was going to explode. “Did you think for one second about all of the people you’re responsible for sending to Walpole? Not the least of which is your scumbag, child raping, murdering, ex-fucking-husband! Did it ever cross your mind that this was some kind of a set-up? That Josh arranged this to get you into the prison. Or that someone was lying in wait to shiv your stupid fucking ass, Rona
n?” Ten knew he was screeching like a fish wife, but he didn’t care.
Ronan stared at him with his mouth hanging open. No sound came out.
“We’ve been married for nine days and you’re trying to widow me already.” Ten could feel tears streaking down his face. The shocked look on Ronan’s face told him that his husband hadn’t thought of any of the scenarios that Ten had just laid out for him. “If you had just told me about the damn letter or brought it home, I could have gotten a read on it. Found out if it was genuine or if you were in any danger. But no, you kept it from me intentionally. Why, Ronan?” Ten demanded.
Anger replaced the guilt in Ronan’s blue eyes. “I’m a grown man, Tennyson. I don’t need your permission to do anything.”
“Why did you keep this from me?” Ten asked, this time his voice was more conversational and less demanding. He hoped that would encourage his pig-headed husband to talk to him.
Ronan’s upper lip curled into a snarl. “Because I knew you’d say no. Okay? I wanted to hear what this guy had to say, so I went to see him.”
“Since when do we help the bad guys?” Ten heard the judgmental tone in his voice and instantly regretted it, but it was too late to take it back now.
“When they’re innocent,” Ronan gritted out.
“How do you know he’s innocent? Are you psychic all of a sudden?” Ten winced. He definitely shouldn’t have said that.
“How do you know he isn’t innocent? You’re so damn stubborn, you won’t even read any of this stuff.” Ronan threw his arms wide to indicate all of the papers he’d brought home with him.
“I’m stubborn?” Ten had reached the end of his patience. “You went into a maximum-security prison without telling anyone where you were, to see a convicted murderer who claims to be innocent like every other con who ever lived, and I’m stubborn?”
“You’re being unreasonable. Look at me.” Ronan thumped his chest. “I’m fine.”
“Jesus Christ, Ronan. This isn’t a fucking movie. You’re not Dirty Harry. In case you’ve forgotten you’ve got four bullet holes in you. We keep talking about our future daughter. If you keep up this kind of behavior, there isn’t going to be a daughter, or if there is, I’m going to end up raising her by myself. The only thing she’ll have of you beside your stubborn Irish DNA, is the folded flag draping your coffin that some officer in the BPD handed me at your funeral.” Ten got up from the table and walked toward the kitchen door.
“Where are you going?” Ronan demanded.
Ten turned around with a sour look on his face. “You don’t tell me where you were all day, but I owe you an explanation of where I’m going now?” Ten shut his mouth before the words, “How fucking dare you?” could slip from his lips. He turned from his husband and kept walking.
“If you walk out that door don’t expect me to be here when you come home,” Ronan spat at Tennyson’s retreating back.
Knowing he’d say something he could never take back if he opened his mouth now, Tennyson grabbed his keys from the table in the hall and walked out the front door.
They’d just had their first fight as a married couple and Tennyson Grimm-O’Mara felt like shit.
7
Ronan
The sound of the front door slamming echoed loudly in the empty house. Part of Ronan wanted to take off running after his husband, while the other part was glad the harpy was gone. At least now he could listen to himself think.
Even Dixie looked thunderstruck. She stared up at Ronan and then looked toward the empty living room where Tennyson had gone and back at Ronan again. She didn’t whimper, didn’t bark, she just seemed lost.
“Well, shit.” Ronan sat back down at the table. He really hadn’t expected Tennyson to walk out. He supposed daring him to do it by saying he wouldn’t be there if Ten left really was the last nail in his coffin.
What did he do now? Did he pack a bag and head over to Fitzgibbon’s house? Or, did he stand his ground and sleep here? “What do I do, Dixie, my little pixie?”
Dixie, seeming to finally realize Ten was gone, let out a sharp bark and ran to the door. A second later, she let out a howl.
It sounded grief-stricken to Ronan. Not that he blamed her in the slightest. He wanted to howl for Tennyson too.
Step one was to pack up all of the Hutchins material. That was the last thing Tennyson needed to see when he got home. If he came home. Would he spend the night with Carson and Truman? Ronan had no idea. This was the first fight they’d had since they’d moved in together. Their first fight as a married couple.
In the past when they’d have a disagreement, they both had their own apartments to go back to and cool off. Now, they shared the same space. The rules had changed but neither of them had bothered to figure out what the new rules were. Why would they? They were newlyweds and so blissfully happy that the thought of this happening was never on their radar.
Ronan grabbed the printed newspaper articles and shoved them back into the first partition of an empty accordion folder. He hated to admit it, but Tennyson had made several good points while he’d been screaming like an Irish banshee. It had never once crossed his mind that Tank Hutchins’ letter could have been a set-up of any kind from one of the killers he’d sent to MCI Walpole or from his ex-husband, Josh Gatlin.
It had been more important to him to get out of the office without Fitzgibbon seeing him than it was for him to have given a thought to his own personal safety. Ronan rubbed a hand against the three puckered bullet scars on the right side of his chest. Three months ago, he was lying in a coma, not knowing if he was going to live or die. Tennyson had every right to worry about his impulsiveness today, but wasn’t an innocent man rotting away in a prison cell just as important as his safety?
Tennyson would obviously argue no.
Sighing, Ronan cleaned up the rest of the papers on the table and scribbled his husband a quick note.
He sprinted up the stairs and grabbed his rolling carry-on bag out of the closet in Fitzgibbon’s old room and brought it back into their bedroom. He packed for the night and for work the next day. With a heavy heart, he zipped up the bag and rolled it out of the room without a backward glance. He knew it would hurt too much to look back at the bed he and Ten had shared every night since they’d moved into the house.
When he got back down to the bottom of the stairs, Dixie was still sitting in front of the door, waiting for Tennyson. He sat down on the bottom step. “Hey, little girl.”
The puppy didn’t budge. She didn’t even turn around. It was like she hadn’t heard him at all.
If his life wasn’t lying in ruins at his feet, he would have laughed. Okay, well, this sucked. He picked up the puppy, who went limp in his hands, reminding him of the internet cat videos he’d seen of felines who went boneless after their owners dressed them up in costumes.
He shifted Dixie into his right arm, cradling her against his chest, and walked into the kitchen to pick up the Hutchins files. He walked back through the living room and to the front door. Picking up his keys and grabbing the handle to his suitcase, he armed the alarm and walked out the door.
It crossed his mind to walk three doors down to Truman and Carson’s house to speak to his husband, but he didn’t want to involve their friends any more than they already were involved. Instead, he walked across the street to Fitzgibbon’s house and rang the doorbell.
“Hey, Uncle Ronan!” Greeley Fitzgibbon shouted. He reached out to hug Ronan until he noticed Ronan’s arms were full and there was a suitcase sitting on the stairs. “Uh, Dad! I think Uncle Ronan’s moving in with us!”
“Funny, kid!” Kevin Fitzgibbon laughed. He came down the hall toward the front door wiping his hands on a red dish towel. He got one look at Ronan and the jovial look on his face sobered instantly. “Don’t you have that application to Salem State to finish up?”
Greeley shot his father a confused look, but he nodded anyway. “I’ll be upstairs if you need me.”
“Come on in.” Fi
tzgibbon grabbed Ronan’s suitcase and shut the door behind him.
“Thanks. I was starting to wonder if you both were going to leave me out on the stoop all night.”
“I assume there’s a story that goes with the suitcase?” Fitzgibbon asked. “Hello, sweetheart.” He plucked Dixie out of the crook of Ronan’s arm.
“Yeah and it’s a doozy.” Ronan shook his head, still not quite able to wrap his head around it fully.
“Follow me into the kitchen. I was making dinner for me and the kid. It’s no trouble to add another plate to the table.”
Ronan trailed behind his boss. He hadn’t been to Kevin’s house since they’d finished moving in all the boxes and furniture last week. Kevin and Greeley had wanted to set things up on their own. At least that was the line they’d sold Ronan and Tennyson. He’d had a feeling Kevin wanted them to get back to honeymooning. He and Ten hadn’t been in the mood to argue. They’d been in the mood for something else entirely that was clothing-optional.
“So, does the suitcase have to do with where you mysteriously disappeared to this afternoon?” Fitzgibbon raised a knowing eyebrow at Ronan.
“Shit, Cap. You should become a detective. Anyone ever tell you that?” Ronan sighed.
“Funny. Now talk. Don’t make me suspend you on principle alone.”
Ronan shivered at the tone in his voice. It was part disappointed father and part frustrated boss. He dug through one of the accordion folders until he found the cursed letter from Tank Hutchins. “Read this first and then I’ll explain. It was waiting for me on my desk when I came back to work after my honeymoon.”
Kevin silently took the paper and read it. His green eyes popped up over the top of it after a few minutes, but he didn’t say a word. Ronan assumed his boss was reading the contents for a second time.
Fitzgibbon sighed heavily and set the letter down on the kitchen table. “I’m not a psychic, but I’m going to play one in my kitchen. You went to see Hutchins along with his goon of a P.I. and his fancy lawyer. Not only didn’t you tell me where you were going, but you didn’t tell Tennyson either. Last and by no means least, there are approximately twenty-five cons in that maximum-security prison that you are responsible for putting there, including your ex-husband. Tennyson was upset because he didn’t know where you were and because you didn’t seem to have any concern for your own safety. Am I close?” Kevin crossed his arms over his broad chest. His smile didn’t reach his eyes.
