Light of the North Star (Three Rivers #4)

Chapter 1

One

Cole

You hear or read the phrase "his/her world tilted on its axis" quite a bit, but unless you've had it happen to you, you can't really fathom how intense it feels. It's utterly disorienting.

It's a physical shock that leaves you short of breath, wraps steel bands around your chest. It's mental discombobulation that leaves you momentarily unable to string four words together. It's an emotional gut punch that leaves you reeling like a punch-drunk boxer.

People age differently; some guys look old at fifty while others can pass for thirty.

And then there's people like Lacey Grey. She's the same age as me, thirty-four, but barely looks a day over thirty. I know her, so I know how old she is, but if I didn't, I'd probably peg her at late twenties at most.

And she got way, way hotter. She was always a stunning beauty, but now she's…shit, I don't even know.

Breathtaking.

Her cheekbones are high and sharp, her eyes wide and deep and cornflower blue. Her lips are plump and pale pink—she's not wearing any makeup, or at least, not that I can really tell. But I'm a bachelor who rarely dates, so what the fuck do I know about makeup?

She's wearing cream slacks with a sharp crease down the front, red patent leather boots with a tall heel—insanely inappropriate footwear for a northern Michigan winter—and a calf-length camel hair coat with a matching ivory wool hat-and-mittens set.

Everything she's wearing looks wildly expensive—I'd guess that her entire ensemble, what I can see of it, is worth as much as a pretty nice car.

The sleek black Porsche Macan parked on the street is hers, I'm assuming, so she's done well for herself following whatever happened to make her vanish on me, fifteen years ago.

My chest tightens at the mere hint of a thought of that time, and I shove my fist into my jacket pocket to stop myself from rubbing my chest with my knuckles.

After that quick assessment—less than ten seconds of scrutinizing the sudden and unexpected appearance of the last person on earth I ever expected to see again—my gaze returns to her face.

Her nose is still trickling blood, and it's crooked as hell—broken. But her left eye is already black, blue, green, purple, and yellow—healing. A few days old at most, at a guess. There's a small, scabbed-over cut below her eye, marring her otherwise perfect cheekbones.

I've been a law enforcement officer my whole life.

I've seen all sorts of shit—we may not be a bustling metropolis, but folks up here still find the time to act like fools.

Point is, I've answered way too many domestic violence calls, seen way too many battered wives to not know exactly how Lacey got that cut and black eye: some asshole backhanded her while wearing a ring.

The fury that sears through me at the sight of blood on her face, at the black eye and the assumption of how she got it…

it's overwhelming. It's enough to further stun me—my hands shake…

until I clench them into fists, both to stop the shaking and because, for a split second, I'm filled with enough rage that I could smash someone's face in. Preferably the asshole who hurt Lacey.

"Who did that to you?" I barely recognize my own voice—it's the kind of low, rattling, vicious snarl Felix has always been so good at—until Ember, at least.

Her eyebrows furrow. "Easy, there, Sheriff. None of your concern." She steps back from me, goes to wipe her nose with her sleeve, but thinks better of it. "I don't suppose you carry a handkerchief like your dad used to, do you?"

"No." It's all I can manage. "C'mon. This way. I'll get you cleaned up."

"Cole, I'm—"

"You're not fine," I snap, pressing my hand into her lower back and gently but firmly pushing her into a walk.

Some things haven't changed, it seems. Growing up together and then dating as we did, I used to know Lacey very, very well, and one thing was always certain, and that's that she wouldn't admit to not being okay if her life depended on it.

I remember when she broke her wrist playing soccer our sophomore year, she refused to leave the field until the game was over.

Granted, it was state finals and they were down a goal, but still.

She played the last thirty minutes of the game with her broken wrist held against her belly, and she shouted down the ref when he tried to make her leave the field.

That's Lacey for you.

And as I said, it doesn’t seem like that, at least, has changed. Her nose is damn near sideways but she's fine.

"I said I don't need your help, Sheriff Mannix." She stops walking, pulling away from my touch. "I just need a napkin or something to stop the bleeding."

I indicate the single-story red brick building just ahead. "My office is right there, Miss Grey. Give me five minutes and I'll have you on your way."

For a weird, tense moment, she just stares up at me. Her eyes are impossible to read, her expression closed off. There's a hint of something, just for an instant—a softening. Perhaps a tinge of guilt or regret or something, but it's there and gone so fast I doubt whether I saw what I think I saw.

"Fine. But this is totally unnecessary."

"I disagree," I grumble. "Your nose is broken. If I don't set it, it'll heal crooked."

"God forbid my nose is crooked," she mutters.

"Stop being difficult for two seconds, woman, and let me help you. We don't even have to talk."

"You don't fucking know me anymore, Cole Mannix," she snaps. "You don't get to talk to me like that."

"You're acting like I'm the one who fucking vanished without a word of fucking explanation!" I explode.

And now everyone is looking at me, and Lacey has stumbled backward, eyes wide.

I hold up my hands palms out. "I'm sorry. That was…extreme, and I apologize." I turn away, close my eyes, and breathe with slow intention until my emotions have settled as much as they're going to. I key my radio on my left shoulder. "Chelsea? This is Cole. Come in, please."

A crackle of static. "Go for Chelsea. What's up, Cole?"

"You near the station?" I ask.

"Yeah, we're in the pharmacy parking lot."

"I need you over here. Not an emergency, but don't dawdle."

"Ten-four, good buddy, we'll be there in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

I snort. "Your radio etiquette is terrible."

"Maybe, but I'm funny."

"Cole, really, I'm fine,” Lacey repeats. “I don't need all this." I give her my respect-my-authority stare until she holds up her hands in surrender. "Fine, fine. Jesus, you got bossy." This last part is under her breath, but I hear it.

"I am the boss," I answer. "Therefore, I am by definition bossy."

I can see on her face the Herculean effort it takes for her to not tell me that I'm not the boss of her.

A minute later, headlights swing around the corner and approach from the south, and then the red-and-white ambulance squeals to a stop, disgorging Chelsea from the passenger seat, medic’s bag over one shoulder.

"What do we got, Big Man?" Chelsea asks, setting her bag down and shaking out a pair of blue rubber gloves; it's a rhetorical question which she answers herself.

"Ooh, one hell of a healing shiner, a minor cut to the cheekbone, and a nasal fracture.

" Chelsea probes Lacey's nose with her fingers.

"Oh, yep. A nice and simple fracture, though, so once I reduce it, you should be good to go. "

"Will my nose be straight?" Lacey asks.

"Oh, sure. I'm damn good at reductions. No guarantees, but I highly doubt rhinoplasty will be necessary."

Chelsea is a tiny woman, barely clearing five feet and slender. She has jet black hair worn in a long, thick braid that she coils at the back of her head. She's a damn fine medic and a good friend of mine.

Lacey winces as Chelsea probes, but otherwise shows no sign of discomfort. "Wonderful. Thank you—Chelsea, was it?"

"Yes, ma'am, that's me." She steps back and gestures at the ambulance. "Why don't you step into my office, and we'll get this squared away in no time."

I remain where I am as Chelsea helps Lacey into the back of the bus and closes the door.

I can see fragments of the scene within through the small square windows as Chelsea applies a local anesthetic and then sets about reducing the fracture using some sort of specialized tool and a pair of forceps.

Probably best I called Chelsea anyway—I'd have just yanked it back into place like I've done for myself, Felix, Riley, Nyx, and pretty much every deputy on the force at one point or another.

Chelsea's fix is, clearly, far more precise.

"Hey, what's goin' on, Cole?" Felix is beside me. He leans into me to peer inside the ambulance. "Wait, is that…?" He turns a shocked look at me. "Is that Lacey fucking Grey?"

I can only nod. "Yeah," I rasp, my voice hoarse. I try again, louder. "Yes. That's Lacey."

"And what's she doing in there with Chelsea?"

"She slipped on the ice and broke her nose. Chelsea is setting it."

"And what's she doing here?" he asks. "Far as I know, her parents live in Florida full-time. She hasn't been back since…" he trails off, but we both know what he's not saying.

"Since she fucking abandoned me," I snarl.

“Yeah. I know. And I don't fuckin' know why she's here.

Hasn't said and doesn't seem inclined to, so far.

" My emotions are raw, my nerves all exposed.

"If you can get some answers out of her, great.

I have paperwork to do." I turn away and head for the department entrance, my gut churning with a nauseating boil of conflicting emotions.

"Cole, hold up, man," Felix says, trotting after me. "Talk to me, bro."

I don't slow my pace, trotting up the steps and inside with Felix hard on my heels. "Nothing to talk about. I don't know why she's here, and I honestly don't give a fuck."

"Oh come on, Manny," Felix says, following me into my office and closing the door behind me. "You can't bullshit me, brother."