by Malcom, Anne
Chaos Remains
Greenstone Security #4
Anne Malcom
To my #sisterqueen, Jessica Gadziala. For everything you do. Everything you are. And for reading this book and not hating it.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Anne Malcom
Copyright © 2019 by Anne Malcom
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Chapter One
I’m not a person who panics.
Not when I found my father after he’d overdosed when I was seven years old. I calmly called 911 and followed their instructions until an ambulance arrived.
Not on my wedding day when a hurricane ruined our ceremony on the beach.
Not when my water broke in the middle of an important event for my father-in-law and I had to grit my teeth and wait for him to finish his speech before I was taken to the hospital.
Not even when my husband hit me for the first time.
Or the second.
And especially not when I finally found my backbone underneath fractured ribs and escaped the beautiful house that had become my prison, with my two-year-old and not much else.
But now, I was panicking.
I was speeding.
Veering in and out of traffic.
Scrolling frantically through my phone while simultaneously glancing up at the road.
Never would I be on my phone and drive. Never. Because I usually had my son in the car. His safety was everything to me and I wouldn’t dream of risking it that way.
But my son wasn’t in the car.
Which was why I was panicking.
Because my abusive, soon-to-be-ex-husband, also detective and son of a senator, kidnapped my son.
And I didn’t know where he was.
I didn’t know where my son was.
A fist fastened around my lungs, air coming strangled, in short, quick bursts.
At the same time, a location popped up on my phone and I veered across three lanes of traffic at the last minute to get to my exit.
I prayed that I didn’t get pulled over as I sped through the streets of LA. Most people would have been happy to see the flashing blue and red lights behind them after their son was kidnapped by his abusive father. I was not most people in this situation.
And the police had proved to be worth less than nothing.
“So you don’t have primary custody of your son, ma’am,” the officer said, looking bored, and hardened to my distress.
The police in the precinct had originally been concerned and responsive when I rushed in there to inform them that my son had been kidnapped. That was until they found out he was kidnapped by his father. No, that was after they found out who his father was.
Their demeanor immediately changed then.
Much like the officers had in our old hometown when I went in to report the abuse.
Robert had power.
No, that wasn’t quite right.
Robert’s name had power.
Police generally protected their own. I already had that against me. But when one of their own was the son of a state senator who could end their careers with one phone call?
That was something entirely different.
With me, broken and brutalized, it sucked but I understood it. Because I’d had countless lessons of how hard, cruel, and unfair the world was. I didn’t grow up with the illusion that life was full of justice for those who wronged others. I knew all about the ugly truths.
I had been frustrated but resigned when they turned me away after I finally found enough courage to report what had been then, years of abuse. I was resigned to the fact the police wouldn’t help me, and, like always, I’d have to help myself. My son.
And I did.
But this was different.
This was a child.
My child.
Pure.
Beautiful.
Helpless.
And still, the officer was looking at me with that bored, hardened expression.
“I have full custody,” I gritted out, my nails digging into my palms as I tried to stay calm. How does anyone stay calm when they didn’t know where their baby was?
“Given to you by the courts?” he asked.
Tears prickled the backs of my eyes, I didn’t let them fall. Not just because I wasn’t sure I’d be able to stop them if I did, but because I wouldn’t give this man that. This horrible man that was clutching onto a distorted version of brotherhood at the expense of a child.
“No,” I said, my voice shaky but strong. “Up until today, his father had no interest in even fighting for custody. He has not been in his life in three years.”
I wish I could say he had not been in my life for as long, but his visit yesterday made that impossible. I should have known that something would happen after. That he wouldn’t just leave me alone.
The officer glanced at me without sympathy. “A father has a right to see his child, ma’am. And if he hasn’t got a court document barring him from contact, he is within his rights to pick him up from school.”
“He didn’t just pick him up from school,” I hissed. “He took him. Not because he is a father. Because he is a monster. He wanted to hurt me. He is a violent man. A dangerous one. I don’t give a damn about the fact he has a badge just as shiny as yours, and you shouldn’t either. Not when a little boy is in danger.”
Something moved in his face at my tone. Something human, maybe. “You have evidence of this violence?”
I merely stared at him, the tightness of my eye speaking for itself.
He shifted uncomfortably. “Did you report any assaults?”
I gritted my teeth. “I tried. When we were married. Back in Virginia. I got all but laughed out of the precinct. I’m not here to report an assault. I’m here to report a kidnapping.”
His face moved again. He glanced to his computer. “I can make some calls. Do a house call at his father’s address. Check in on your son. But I cannot arrest your husband for taking his son when he was within his rights.”
“Ex-husband,” I corrected, hanging by a thread.
“You’re divorced?”
I wanted to sink into my seat with defeat. With pain. But I couldn’t admit defeat. If it were just me, I would have a long time ago. But I would never stop fighting for my son. “No. Not legally. He wouldn’t sign the papers. We’ve been separated for three years.”
“So you’re still legally married?”
It was then, right then, that I realized that no one would help me get my son back. No one wearing a uniform at least.
So that’s what had me in my car speeding toward the city, googling people wi
thout uniforms and with some kind of power.
Which had me landing on Greenstone Security’s website and plugging their location into my GPS.
* * *
I didn’t take note of my surroundings as I rushed into the building.
I wasn’t even sure if I’d locked my car. My keys might have still been in the ignition.
I didn’t care.
It was just a car.
A car that I couldn’t afford despite it being a piece of junk and a car I needed to drive Nathan to school. But I wouldn’t need to drive Nathan to school if this didn’t work. That was what had me bypassing the thoughts of my car getting stolen, getting trapped in LA with only a handful of cash in my purse and a near destitute bank account.
I rushed into the cool foyer, it smelled pleasant, clean, calm. It might have been calm. If I wasn’t on the verge of a mental breakdown.
But I couldn’t break.
No.
Not now. Not when my son needed me.
“I need to talk to a private investigator, now,” I said to the woman behind the desk.
Well, more like shouted at the woman across the desk.
I never shouted at people.
Especially strangers.
Especially strangers with kind eyes.
But this wasn’t me.
This was mother without a child.
“Do you have an appointment?” the woman asked, face carefully blank and not reacting to the disheveled, sweaty woman shouting at her in her nice office.
“No, but it’s urgent. I really need to see someone now,” I said, my voice slightly less than a yell now, but still not an appropriate tone for this nice, calm office.
She gave me a kind look. “We are fully booked up right now, but I can refer you to a reputable office—”
I pushed the sunglasses atop my head that I forgot I was wearing just at the same time something moved in the corner of my eye. I didn’t take notice.
“Please,” I whispered. “I don’t have time to drive somewhere else, find someone else. I need someone now.” I paused, my hand shaking as I placed it on the clean black desk. “I need help.” My voice cracked at the end and I was so ashamed at the weakness of it.
I was ashamed. But I wasn’t above using that weakness, preying on other people’s sympathy or pity in order to get them to help me. I wasn’t above anything in trying to get my son back.
The woman gave me both pity and sympathy in seeing my bruised face now my sunglasses weren’t covering it. There was something a lot more human on her face than on the police officer’s earlier today. But there was also something else, a cold professionalism that I guessed someone who worked at a place like this might have to employ to insulate herself against the violence of the world.
I sighed and waited for the rejection.
It was then the shadow at the side of my vision that I hadn’t been paying attention to became actualized.
“Boyfriend do that?” a gruff voice demanded with no warm sympathy or pity, just hostility that sounded like it was permanent.
The voice did something to my already frayed nerves, exposed to the root. It flayed them. Turning fully to focus on the owner of the voice that did more than fray my nerves.
It shattered them.
Because the man in front of me had an aggression to his face, to his aura that was so much more violent and saturating that had been in his voice.
Robert had hated that. The fact I felt people’s auras. That I believed in phases of the moon, in burning sage, in crystals bring positive energy, that I had a tarot deck and studied astronomy.
He hadn’t let me display any of it at our old house. Forbidden me to talk about it in ‘company’ as if we were the type of people to have ‘company’. That was his father, he threw the fancy dinner parties, benefits, galas. And I had to attend all of those in pre-approved outfits with conversation plans.
Small talk that did not involve auras.
Needless to say, the small house that we’d been living in for the past three years was full of crystals, dream catchers, astronomy charts, incense, books on the art of divination.
I didn’t believe in magic, exactly, but I believed in auras, energies. I believed I was sensitive to some. Obtuse or blind to others, of course, otherwise I never would have married Robert.
But this man in front of me. I wasn’t blind to him. I was blinded by him. Darkness, menace seemed to cover me just by proximity.
I stepped back slightly out of instinct. His eyes followed my retreat blankly then went back up to where the bruise on my face masked a lot of my features. I might have imagined the small change into a glint that wasn’t just blank.
“No,” I said, my voice a rasp. I cleared my throat. “My husband did it.” I paused, thinking of the way the officer at the precinct told me that we were still married, legally. He still had rights as a husband and a father. “Ex-husband,” I corrected. I didn’t give a shit what the law said.
He had no rights.
He had no rights to come to our home, the shabby, but safe and cozy place I’d created for my son and I. The home that I’d made after leaving Robert with nothing but a small bag for me and Nathan and two hundred and fifty dollars in a secret checking account. I drove us as far away as I could, to the other side of the country, to be exact. I’d had to sell the fancy car I’d driven away with, and because the title wasn’t in my name, I had to sell it at a less than reputable establishment for significantly less than what it was worth.
But it didn’t matter.
It was enough to get me and Nathan the rest of the way to California, set us up in a house in a little town just outside LA.
I didn’t have family to support me.
No friends.
I was alone.
And terrified.
But I’d made it.
For the first year, I’d lain awake at night, clutching my sleeping baby, staring at a watermarked ceiling, body taut, waiting for the sound. Waiting for the bang on the door, or the breaking of a window to signify that Robert had found us.
But he never did.
I didn’t wonder if it was because he just didn’t care to look or he was a really shitty detective.
The specifics of it all hadn’t mattered. All that had mattered was that we were free. My son was safe. I was fed. I got a job at a café, found a decent daycare, made ends meet, barely, but I did it.
And last night, when I wasn’t expecting it, when I was at home cleaning, happy, enjoying rare free time while Nathan was at a playdate, he came.
As if he sensed that happiness.
That peace.
And he tore right through it.
I answered the door smiling because I thought it was Marie bringing Nathan home early.
“The spawn set something on fire or steal nuclear codes?” I joked, opening the door. My five-year-old was well mannered but not exactly well behaved. He liked mischief.
And he got away with all of it. Because he was cute. And I wasn’t just saying that because he was my kid and I was supposed to think he was cute. He’d gotten the magical mix of Robert and me. A slight olive skin tone from my Cuban roots, but not as deep as mine because Robert didn’t have ‘ethnic’—his word—ancestry like I did. Just good old colonists. Nathan had midnight black hair, like mine, with a slight wave. He had piercing green eyes like his father, the thing that attracted me to him in the first place. Somehow looking into them, I never saw Robert. All I saw was Nathan. Because there was something about that kid. He was a fully realized human. Since he was born, he had a fullness to his eyes, a personality to them that transfixed you.
He was so unique for a five-year-old, so full of personality, charisma. People gravitated toward him, he was magnetic.
My little boy was special. Precious. The one thing I was indebted to his father for giving him to me. The father who I’d finally gotten comfortable with knowing I’d never see him again.
And now he was here.
On the doors
tep of my little two-bedroom ranch in a working-class neighborhood outside LA.
I was so shocked, the smile stayed on my face. My heart paused in my chest. My breath caught.
He was the same. Hair a little bit longer so it curled around the collar of his black shirt. The sleeves were pulled up to show his corded forearms. He still worked out, ate chicken and rice, maintained his physique with a manic perfectionism. His jaw was clean-shaven, a couple of new lines underneath his eyes.
His shirt was tucked into dark jeans, badge pinned on his belt. It was polished, shining in the sun, the reflection from it seemed to burn me. It was a joke, that shield on his hip.
“Are you gonna invite your husband in or just stand there grinning at me like an idiot?” he asked, voice smooth, pleasing, on the outside at least. There was a threat slithering underneath it that I recognized.
My body moved robotically, outside of my own volition as I stepped aside and let him into my home. I let him into my sanctuary without hesitation, without a fight.
Shocked at myself, I was still holding the door handle as he walked past, his scent assaulting my nostrils. His cologne hadn’t changed, of course. It was still too musky, too strong.
I stared at the beautiful garden across from me for a moment. Alice, my elderly neighbor, looked up from the flowers she was planting to raise her hand in greeting.
I robotically waved back.
I didn’t make friends with my neighbors before. Robert didn’t allow it. They were too close to us already, they could be a lifeline, a support system if I needed it. Which I did.
He made sure I had nothing I needed, and everything he wanted for me.
I was friends with my neighbors now.
Lucia and her husband Felipe had two kids, one that was twelve and another that was sixteen, who babysat for me now and again.
