Love Expert (Love & War #4)

Round One

BILLY

With narrowed eyes and my hand down by my department-issued service weapon still strapped firmly to my hip, I step onto my porch at nearly eleven at night and glance left.

Darkness hungrily swallows my yard, and a gentle September breeze makes the trees dance among the shadows. Though my eight-year-old son describes them as a monster’s claws creeping closer.

A beam of light flashes through Mrs. Sava’s window next door, a sneaky swing of illumination that disrupts the stillness of nearly midnight in a small town, on an un-busy street, in the middle of nowhere.

Old age caught up to the sweet Mrs. Sava three months ago, and when her pigheadedness kept her from seeking medical help, she ended up exiting this world the exact same way she entered: on the couch in her living room.

The two-story Victorian has remained empty ever since.

Until tonight.

At a loud clatter next door, then something heavy shattering across the floor, I resign myself to my fate, take out my phone, and open it to the text app.

Living in such a small town means sending a text to dispatch will achieve the same result as a phone call, but without the inconvenience of participating in an actual conversation.

I really don’t like those.

I tap out the details—possible home invasion, off-duty officer attending, backup required—and hit send. Then, I drop my phone into my pocket and take out my gun as I approach my porch steps and start down in silence.

I cast a fast glance back to my front door to make sure it’s closed, locked, and secure, since my little boy is sleeping soundly upstairs, then I move across my lawn, my eyes trained on Mrs. Sava’s house.

I’ll be damned if some vagrant fucker gets to come in and swipe eighty years worth of memories.

I step over a garden bed that spans the length of our yards, long ago neglected by the old woman who once loved spending time amongst the blooms, then onto stepping stones dropped haphazardly from here to her porch.

Every single flower bed sits dull and colorless now, as lifeless as the woman who left them behind, and the grass that was once spongy and green now crackles under my boots after a long, hot summer.

I’ve been mowing for the stubborn Mrs. Sava for the better part of a year now, keeping the place tidy after her fall last spring, but mowing is not all a lawn needs, and she forbade me from spending money on the good fertilizers to make it as lush as it once was.

“Dang! Ouch!”

A woman’s voice hisses from inside the house, her words easily floating through the open front door and onto the breeze outside.

Surprise hits me first, my brows shooting high—women are allowed to be vagrants too—then curiosity comes second.

I hold my gun by my thigh, my ears perked for more noise. More information. More anything, before I step onto the porch and this thing escalates.

“That’s so annoying!” The woman grunts, the clatter of broken pottery moving on Mrs. Sava’s hardwood floor. “Why would anyone leave that like that?”

“My name is Detective Caster.” I stop at the bottom of Patrice’s porch and absorb the sound of her intruder’s gasp.

Then another crash and the resulting rattle of delicate china hitting the floor.

“I’m with the Plainview Police Department, and you’re trespassing.

” I bring my gun higher. “I want you to come out with your hands up. Move slowly. If you’re holding a weapon, set it on the floor and walk away. ”

She hits me with the full brunt of her flashlight, the stinging beam burning my eyes and tempting me to curl my finger around my gun’s trigger.

“Caster?”

“Put the flashlight down, ma’am!” I squint until my eyes are damn near closed, and gulp when, back at my house, my son’s bedroom light flickers on. Across town, sirens scream into the air. “Put it down,” I repeat. “Set your weapons on the floor if you have any, then step outside.”

“But—”

“Immediately!”

My front door creaks open, and Jeremy steps out with wild hair, sleepy eyes, and rumpled race car pyjamas covering all but one leg, because the fabric sits askew. “Daddy?”

“Go back inside, buddy!” I stare through the dark doorway of Mrs. Sava’s house as a woman, a shadow, makes her way closer. “Stop!”

“But you told me to come out.” She stumbles onto the porch and swings her light toward my house, blinding my son until his eyes slam shut.

“Ma’am!” With my heart in my throat, I charge halfway up the stairs. “Put the flashlight down and your hands behind your head, then I want you to turn and press your nose to the wall.”

“Daddy?!”

“I don’t have any weapons.” Panicked, the woman releases her flashlight so it bounces against the porch and, for a brief second, shines right up at a face that imprints itself on my brain.

On her long mahogany locks and wide, almond-shaped eyes.

It’s brief, just a single second in time, then it topples over and lands again, the bright light pointed out at the street.

Trembling, she lifts her arms and spins to face the wall. “I’m allowed to be here.”

I holster my gun and stalk up the remaining few stairs, dragging her hands up and slapping her palms to the wall. Then I grip the back of her neck and run my free hand along her ribs.

Her hip.

Her thigh.

“D-did you say your name is Caster?” she stammers. “Detective Caster?”

“Dad?” Jeremy’s voice wobbles. “What happened?”

“Nothing, buddy.” I switch hands and search her other side. “This is private property, and I know for a damn fact you’re not the owner .” Satisfied she’s not carrying, I spin her around and press her back to the wall. “What’s your name?”

A police cruiser skids into the driveway, tires slipping on loose gravel, the headlights brutally highlighting just how desperately Mrs. Sava’s place needs a new coat of paint. New shingles. New window trim. New porch railing, too, probably.

“Billy, you good up there?” Ramone, my partner on the job, bellows from across the lawn. “What’s happening?”

“B-Billy?” The woman’s golden eyes flicker between mine. “Billy Caster? You’re a cop now?”

I look her up and down as anxiety slides through my belly and my brain screams no way, no chance, no how!

“I asked for your name.” But I know it already.

Right? Even though it’s impossible. Unreasonably irritated, I snag her wrist and slap a cuff over the delicate bone.

“Until you’ve identified yourself, I’m gonna consider you a trespasser, and the fact I’ve had to ask more than once already is reason enough to take you down to the station and waste your entire night inside a cage. ”

“Maggie?” Ramone slams his door and strides across the yard, up the stairs, and across the porch until his chest touches my shoulder and his eyes narrow in my peripherals.

He studies her for a beat, staring, squinting, grunting, then he flashes a wide, way-too-fucking-friendly smile and shoves me aside. “Maggie Sava? Girl, is that you?”

“Ramone?” She stares right back. “Ramone Devereaux?”

“Yeah!” He undoes her handcuff and slaps it against my chest, then he grabs her hand and yanks her in for an aggressive hug. “Jesus, girl. You grew the hell up!”