Cross To Bear (The Satan’s Knights MC North Carolina #5)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

JOSEPHINE “JO” BOOKER

“Is there someone I can call for you, darlin’?”

Tearing my hands away from my face, I lift my chin and stare at the man who single-handedly flipped my world upside down with a phone call, Detective River Reynolds. It’s like I’m just seeing him for the first time, cataloging every feature, from his wavy salt and pepper hair that is combed back, to his slightly crooked jaw and the age lines surrounding his mouth. My gaze pauses there as a frown tugs the corners of his lips. I wonder if his sympathy is genuine, or if it’s just a well-rehearsed reaction. He’s probably done this a hundred times in his career.

He plucks a tissue from the box on top of his desk and hands it to me. Tearing my eyes from him, I murmur my thanks and take the tissue, mindlessly dabbing at my puffy eyes. Until now, I didn’t think it were possible for a person to cry as much as I have in the last five hours, but ever since my phone rang and my brother Andrew’s name flashed across my screen, it seems to be all I can do.

A sickening sense of dread immediately washed over me, and I just knew something wasn’t right. He and I weren’t on the best of terms, and after our last conversation, I assumed he was either calling to ask me for money or to tell me our dear Aunt Barbara had passed.

It was neither of those things.

In fact, it wasn’t Andrew calling at all—it was Detective Reynolds of the Charlotte Mecklenburg Police Department.

“Ms. Booker?”

Snapping out of my trance, I turn my head and stare at him blankly.

“I’m sorry what was the question?’

“I asked if there is anyone you’d like me to call for you. It’s going to be a while before the Forensics report comes back and we clear the apartment and even then, you’re going to want to have it cleaned before you go in there.”

Forcing myself to focus, I drag my fingers through my dark hair and swallow around the lump in my throat.

“You said it was a suicide,” I croak, my voice barely recognizable to my own ears. I close my eyes for a moment, instantly regretting the decision because as soon as I do, I’m transcended back to the moment I stepped out of my car and stood in front of my brother’s apartment. Four police cruisers were parked out front, along with the medical examiner’s truck. There was caution tape blocking the door to the apartment and Andrew’s landlady sat outside on her porch crying buckets of tears.

Poor Mrs. Jacobs—she had been the one to find my brother. Dead, in his bed, with a gun next to him and half of his head blown off. At least that’s what she kept saying over and over to the police.

Imagine driving an hour and a half from Greensboro because a detective called you to tell you your only brother was in some sort of ‘accident’ but before he can explain to you that your brother wasn’t actually in an accident at all, you hear his landlady say those words.

There was no easing the truth.

No, I’m sorry but…

There were those vile words and the picture they painted.

Detective Reynolds sighs as he leans back in his chair.

“Yes, that’s what it appears to be, but we’re still required to do a full investigation before we can officially declare it a suicide.”

Right.

I vaguely remember him explaining that to me right after he asked if I wanted to identify Andrew’s body—something I politely declined. Mrs. Jacobs had already identified him and as far as I was concerned, I didn’t want him lying in that bed with his brains plastered across the walls of his bedroom to be my last memory of him.

Fresh tears fill my eyes and threaten to spill down my cheeks as it really sinks in—Andrew is gone. The one who sheltered me after our parents died and pushed me to finish high school. The one who cheered the loudest when I got my diploma. The one who taught me how to drive using our Aunt Barbara’s old Buick. The one who paid for me to go to beauty school. The man who served our country as a United States Marine. A true American hero who survived war only to take his own life.

A sob sounds from the back of my throat and I quickly lift a hand to cover my mouth. Detective Reynolds hands me the entire box of tissues, staring at me with a solemn expression on his face.

“Please let me call someone for you.”

I shake my head.

“There’s no one to call.”

Our parents died sixteen years ago in the fire that tore through our childhood home. Aunt Barbara, our great aunt on our dad’s side, took us in after that and raised us. If I were to call anyone, it would be her, but two years ago she suffered a stroke that left her paralyzed on her right side. Neither me nor Andrew were in any position to care for her. I was in the process of opening my salon and Andrew was struggling to acclimate to life as a veteran. He could barely care for himself much less our aunt.

But Andrew didn’t see things the way I did. He wanted to be close to Aunt Barbara so instead of putting her in a nursing home closer to me, he insisted we go with one in Concord which was a thirty-minute drive from Andrew’s apartment in Charlotte and every Sunday, Andrew visited her like clockwork.

I should’ve realized something was up when he didn’t call me with a weekly report on Aunt Barbara. Instead, I brushed it off. Andrew was stubborn and like I said, we weren’t on the best of terms after he called to ask me to take a business loan on my salon.

I brush my tears away as guilt fills me. What if he was in some kind of trouble? He was awfully vague when I asked him what he needed the money for and when I told him I didn’t feel comfortable taking the loan, he got angry with me.

After all I’ve done for you through the years, you can’t do this for me?

I shake the memory from my head and divert my gaze back to Detective Reynolds.

“I know this is very difficult for you,” he begins, pausing for a moment. “If you’re sure there isn’t anybody you’d like me to call, I’m going to give you a minute to get your bearings and then you can tell me what you’d like us to do with the dog.”

Sure I missed a crucial part of that statement, I blink.

“What dog?”

“Your brother’s dog. He’s with Mrs. Jacobs right now.”

My brother never mentioned a dog. Not once.

“I…I…didn’t know there was a dog,” I stammer.

“It’s a service dog. According to Mrs. Jacobs, your brother didn’t go anywhere without him. In fact, that’s how she knew something wasn’t right. The dog was outside the apartment, sitting in front of the door howling when she got home from the market. She knocked, called his cell and when she got no reply, she used her key to see if everything was okay…that’s when she found him. The dog must’ve followed her inside the apartment because we had to pry him away from Andrew’s body.”

I remain silent for a moment as I try to process the fact I didn’t know my brother had a service dog. The more I let that sink in, the sadder I become. You see, Andrew wasn’t the same fun-loving brother I bid farewell to when he got deployed. He wasn’t the same man I sent care packages to or joked with through letters. War broke him. It changed him and I didn’t take the time to know the man he was post-war.

I don’t know if that’s his fault or mine—perhaps it’s a combination of both. He was closed off, battling the demons in his head and I just kept telling myself he needed time, that he’d come around once he acclimated himself to life as a civilian again. I should’ve paid more attention to his needs. I should’ve done my research on the repercussions of war, then maybe my brother wouldn’t have needed a service dog.

Maybe he wouldn’t be laying on slab at the county morgue.

“Mrs. Jacobs can’t keep the dog. She says it would be too much work for her. If you’re not in the predicament to take it, I can arrange for the local shelter to come and pick it up,” Reynolds continues.

Weighing his words, I stare at him.

“What kind of dog is it?”

“A Labrador Retriever.”

I’m not much of a dog person myself, but I know the breed and a Lab isn’t exactly a lap dog. I live in a one-bedroom apartment and my lease specifically states I’m not allowed any pets. I couldn’t smuggle in a dog that size. Still, it doesn’t feel right to have Detective Reynolds call the shelter. A service dog is just as much of a hero as the person who requires one.

I look back at the detective.

“Actually, there is someone I’d like to call, but I don’t have his number.” I pause, drawing my lower lip between my teeth. “Do you have my brother’s phone?”

“We tagged some of his belongings as evidence for the investigation, but I will see if we can release his phone. If not, I can look up the name and get the number for you.”

“The name is Mann, Johnny Mann.”

Although, these days he goes by Hawk.