CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER TWO
Present day, March
The drunk swung a wild punch at Sheriff Bree Taggert’s face. She ducked, and the fist sailed over her head. Thrown off-balance by his own unchecked momentum, the drunk staggered.
Heart hammering, Bree caught his arm by the wrist and elbow, put him in an armlock, and introduced him to the sidewalk in slow motion. Once he was down, she reached for the handcuffs on her duty belt. “Hold still, Mr. Killian.”
Howard Killian was going to jail. All this flailing around was futile. But Bree saved her breath. Killian had had just enough booze to make him mean and weaken his impulse control. But he was definitely not in a mood where he would listen to reason.
Belly-down on the sidewalk, Killian turned his head sideways and squirmed, trying to get out of the hold. “Get your hands off me! You have no right ...”
An inch or two over six feet tall, Killian outweighed Bree by a good fifty pounds. At thirty-nine, he had the broad build of an athlete going soft with age and heavy drinking, but he was still strong. Unfortunately for him, leverage was real, and Bree knew how to use it. She snapped the cuffs on his wrists. “You shouldn’t have taken a swing at me.”
“I want to call my lawyer,” he yelled, his cheek pressed into the concrete.
“You’ll get your phone call.” Bree sat back on her heels to catch her breath. The altercation had been short but intense. The quick burst of adrenaline left her pulse pounding. Under her uniform, sweat trickled down her back and soaked the T-shirt she wore beneath her body armor.
One of Bree’s younger deputies, Juarez, rushed from the front porch, where he’d been talking to Killian’s girlfriend.
Killian grunted. The toes of his boots shuffled, as if he were trying to get some leverage but couldn’t. She could feel his hostility. It radiated off his tense body like steam from a sewer grate. He turned his head to glare at her over his shoulder, his eyes white-rimmed with rage.
Not a fan of women in charge, are you, Killian? Too fucking bad.
Bree straightened. “Howard Killian, you are under arrest for assaulting a law enforcement officer.”
Among other things.
“I didn’t even hit you!” Killian yelled, spit flying from his mouth.
Bree ignored the drops of saliva that landed on the knee of her tactical cargoes. “You tried, and that’s enough.”
Tamping down her anger, she maintained her professional face and demeanor, but not without effort. This wasn’t the sheriff’s department’s first domestic violence call this week. It wasn’t even the first DV call today. Bree was damned tired of her deputies being forced into dangerous situations. Domestics were one of the riskiest types of calls for law enforcement. The earlier call hadn’t involved physical contact, but this one had already escalated.
She patted him down and turned out his pockets. Satisfied, she hauled him to his feet before handing him off to her deputy.
“Come on, Killian.” Deputy Juarez spun Killian around and marched him toward the car.
“Are you going to arrest him?” Grace called from her front porch.
“Yes, ma’am.” Bree walked up the driveway, past a silver BMW, to the front porch, and faced the young woman. As sheriff, Bree didn’t usually work patrol. Most of her time was spent behind a desk dealing with politics, the media, and never-ending mountains of paperwork. But her small force had been hit with a nasty strain of flu, and Bree was filling a shift.
Grace Abbott was five one, undernourished, maybe a hundred pounds. Her shoulders slumped, her spine bending to the weight of her life like a question mark. Red marks circled her throat, blood trickled from her upper lip, and the shadow splotching her cheekbone would be a nasty bruise in the morning. Though she was only twenty, she looked worn beyond her years. Her skin was dry and sallow. Lines bracketed the corners of her mouth, as if frowning were her natural state. Her eyes were on Killian’s back.
Bree followed her line of sight. She couldn’t hear what the man was saying, but he seemed to be mouthing off at Juarez, who was ignoring him and maintaining his calm—at least on the outside. Inside, she suspected her deputy was seething. But his self-control made her proud. She turned back to Grace.
Anxiety, fear, and pain filled the young woman’s eyes. She looked like a rabbit that had spotted a threat and frozen, hoping it was invisible to a predator. Bree gave her a minute to settle.
At four o’clock, heavy cloud cover dimmed the late afternoon. Drizzle began to fall from a slate-colored sky. Despite the unseasonably warm day, the water hitting Bree’s neck felt cold as it trickled under her uniform collar. She shivered hard, the adrenaline spike ebbing as she stepped farther under the porch overhang.
Bree’s gaze swept down the street, over the neat row of older homes. The neighborhood wasn’t anything fancy, but it looked solid, with mature trees, basketball nets, and late-model minivans. But none of those things mattered. Most people thought wife beaters all lived in trailer parks, but Bree knew the truth. Socioeconomic boundaries didn’t predict domestic violence. Men who beat their wives could be plumbers, lawyers, or frigging ministers. Killian was a former college professor. Like drugs, DVs were a scourge that showed no sign of abating.
From behind a curtain of stringy blonde hair, Grace finally looked at Bree with furtive eyes that immediately darted away again.
“You know this is going to get worse,” Bree said in a matter-of-fact voice.
Grace chewed a ragged thumbnail but said nothing.
Bree glanced at the curb, where Deputy Juarez opened the rear door of the patrol car. Compared to his girlfriend’s submissive posture, Killian’s chest puffed like a prize rooster’s—all cocky indignation. His red face shone with belligerence. As if he could sense Grace’s focus, Killian’s head swiveled, and his attention zeroed in on her.
Grace flinched, as if her boyfriend’s fist—not his gaze—had landed on her. The young woman’s leggings and oversize sweatshirt were inadequate for the afternoon’s damp cold. She trembled and rubbed her biceps.
Even with Killian handcuffed and under arrest, she was terrified. Killian’s gaze shifted to meet Bree’s, and the vehemence in his glare almost unnerved her. She met his eyes with a direct, challenging stare—the same look that had prompted him to attempt to punch her in the face—until he looked away first. Her confidence angered him. But Bree knew that backing down to a man like Killian would embolden him. Cowards liked to pick on the weak. Once she’d established she wasn’t going to put up with his nonsense, she turned back to Grace.
Bree knew the dynamic as well as her own reflection. In her mind, she saw her mother react the exact same way. Fear had been a major component of Bree’s childhood. Anticipating violence—walking on broken glass instead of eggshells and wondering what act or glance or noise would set off her father’s rage—had been a way of life. She’d learned to be quiet, invisible, and hide when necessary.
She wanted to get this woman away from this house. Grace would resist efforts to help her, but Bree had to try. Her best chance was to get Grace out of her abuser’s line of sight and hopefully break the psychological hold he maintained over her.
“Can we talk inside?” Bree stepped sideways, between the couple, blocking Grace’s view of Killian.
The young woman nodded once. Bree herded her into the foyer and closed the door. Except for a framed photo lying broken on the floor, the small place was spotless. The old wood floor gleamed. Vacuum lines scored an area rug. Not a single speck of dust marred the dark furniture.
Without the pull of her boyfriend’s direct glare, Grace didn’t know where to look. Her eyes roamed the space for a few seconds before settling on the broken glass shards at her feet. She went to the closet, took out a dustpan, and swept up the mess. She returned the glassless picture to a wall hook. It was a picture of Howard and Grace at some event. He had one arm around her shoulders. He wore a suit and a smug grin. She looked stiff and uncomfortable in an ill-fitting dress, like a little girl playing dress-up. Grace straightened the photo and continued to stare at it.
“Ms. Abbott,” Bree began.
“Grace.” Her voice shook. “Call me Grace.”
“Grace,” Bree said. “The neighbor said she heard you and Mr. Killian shouting. She was walking her dog past your mailbox and could see through the living room window. She said he struck you across the face.” The visual turned Bree’s stomach, but she suppressed her emotional response and kept her voice even. Pity or perceived judgment would not benefit Grace. She needed empathy from someone who understood her circumstances from her perspective.
And she needed real help. Without resources, family, and/or money, she would not be able to remove herself from the situation. Predators like Killian intentionally selected victims who didn’t have a support system.
Without lifting her gaze, Grace shook her head. “No. She’s mistaken.”
“I know the truth, Grace.”
Grace shook her head, her lips pressing together hard enough to push all the blood—and color—out of them. “I fell,” she murmured.
Disappointed but not surprised, Bree breathed, then tried a softer appeal. “We can help you. You don’t have to live like this.”
Panic enlarged Grace’s pupils. “No. I won’t testify against him.”
“You don’t have to. I’m arresting him anyway.” In fact, Bree was required by law to arrest Killian based on the domestic violence complaint called in by the neighbor and her own observation of Grace’s visible injuries. But the swing Killian had taken at Bree would no doubt help convince the judge he was dangerous.
In the back of the house, a child cried softly, “Mama.”
Bree lifted her brows. No one had mentioned a child. But this changed everything. Grace was no longer Bree’s primary concern.
Grace turned her ear toward the hallway. Her weight shifted to the balls of her feet. “My daughter, Riley.”
My, not our, Bree noted. “How old is she?”
“Four.”
The same age Bree’s little sister had been the night their father had murdered their mother. Bree blinked to eradicate the images and the emotions that accompanied them. Grace would have been sixteen when Riley was born.
“Has Killian ever struck her?” Bree asked.
“No.” Grace resumed chewing on her thumbnail.
Is she lying?
Worry for the child gnawed at Bree’s gut. “I need to see her. I need to make sure she’s OK.”
“Mama.” The second cry was drawn out but still soft.
Grace led the way to a small bedroom. She turned on the light. The room didn’t belong to a child. It was a guest room, decorated in unrelenting shades of gray. A little girl, petite like her mother, lay among half a dozen stuffed animals in a queen-size bed. In the corner, toys spilled from a pink backpack. Tiny clothes in brilliant shades of pink and purple filled a plastic hamper.
“Mama?” Her voice was heartbreakingly soft, as if she were trying to not be heard beyond her own doorway. She’d learned to be quiet—to not wake him. Bree knew this because she had lived it.
“It’s OK, baby.” Grace went to the bed and perched on the edge. She smoothed baby-fine blonde hair away from the child’s face.
A tiny hand reached up to touch her mother’s bleeding lip. The sleeve of her pajama top was neon pink decorated with sparkles. Grace wrapped her hand around her daughter’s and kissed it. “Everything’s OK, baby.”
Riley’s eyes remained sad and scared. Children were more perceptive than people realized. They hadn’t learned to rationalize away the truth. Riley knew.
Bree backed out of the room. In the hall, she glanced through two additional doorways. One was a home office. The other was the main bedroom, decorated in masculine shades of maroon and navy blue. No flowers, no decorations, no knickknacks. Bree poked her head into the kitchen. It smelled like roast beef, and a pot in the sink brimmed with soapy water. The fridge held milk, cheese, the usual condiments, and beer. Bree’s own kitchen was full of school papers, Kayla’s drawings, et cetera. This entire house was very much a male space. Grace and her daughter had clearly not been afforded permanent status. They didn’t live here; they were allowed to sleep here. Bree had no doubt that Killian reminded Grace of his generosity and her precarious position on a regular basis.
How could Bree get through to her? Grace’s circumstances would not improve. They never did. There was only one trajectory for these situations: downhill.
Grace reappeared in the living room. She wrapped her arms around her own waist as if physically holding herself together.
“How long have you both lived here?” Bree asked.
“About eight months.” A long time to be houseguests.
“Where did you live before that?”
Grace’s shoulders jerked up and down once.
“You were homeless?”
“I had a friend who let us crash on her couch for a while, but then her boyfriend moved in.” The rest went unsaid. Grace and her daughter had been forced to move on. Grace’s body trembled with a deep sigh.
“Do you have any family that can help?”
Grace’s mouth tightened.
There was a story there, but Bree let it go for the moment. “He’s not going to change. You and your daughter need to get away.”
Graces shook her head hard and fast. “I can’t.”
“It’s getting worse, isn’t it?” Bree asked. “He drinks. You do something he doesn’t like. Dinner isn’t good enough. The house isn’t clean enough.” She gestured around the dustless room. “You folded his shirt wrong. When he hits you, it’s always your fault.” Bree deepened her tone to mimic a man’s. “You always make me hurt you.” Her father’s voice echoed in her head, and sickness rolled around her belly.
Grace flinched. Naked truth shone in her eyes.
Bree had nailed it. Too well. Swallowing, she shoved the memory back into its mental corner. Not now. This is about Grace, not your mother. But then, this was about a lot of women.
“It didn’t start out like this, did it?” Bree didn’t expect an answer.
A single tear escaped from Grace’s eye.
Bree said, “It’ll get worse. You need to leave him before he escalates.”
Grace whispered, “That’ll just make him madder.” The he’ll kill me was implied.
“I’m putting him in jail.”
“His brother will bail him out.”
“I’ll keep him as long as I can.” Despite Grace’s protests, Bree sensed a crack in her resolve. “I won’t lie. Leaving him will be hard. Maybe the hardest thing you’ve ever done. But do it for your little girl. Is this what you want for her?”
Grace didn’t move. She barely breathed.
“We can help you,” Bree said.
“You can’t.” Grace’s words sounded flat, lifeless, as if part of her were already dead. “You don’t understand.”
Bree exhaled. What could she say? The most dangerous time for an abused woman was when she decided to leave. That’s when their abusers lost their shit—when they lost control of the thing they felt they were entitled to. While men were largely murdered by strangers, women were most often killed by husbands and boyfriends.
No.
Women were killedsounded as if there were no one to blame. As if the abused women got themselves murdered—as if they were to blame for the violence inflicted upon them. Words mattered. They influenced how people thought. Passive language was the devil. Blame needed to rest where it was due.
Abusive men killed women.
In a very active sense.
On average, three women in the US were killed by current or former partners every day. Nothing would change if everyone danced around issues that needed to be confronted head-on.
Bree took a deep breath. She had one chance to get through to Grace. “I do understand. My father was a mean drunk. He abused my mother.” Be honest.You need to connect with her. “He abused all of us.” Even after all these years, admitting the truth felt shameful. Why? Why were victims conditioned to feel as if they were responsible for the actions of their abusers?
Grace’s gaze snapped to meet Bree’s. “Did she leave him?”
“No.” Bree paused for two heartbeats. “He killed her.”
Grace recoiled. Her lips parted but she uttered no words.
“My siblings and I were there. We’re very lucky he didn’t kill us too.”
Domestic violence calls brought Bree back to the childhood she’d worked hard to put behind her. Her father’s abuse had escalated until he’d eventually shot his wife and then himself. If eight-year-old Bree hadn’t hidden herself and her two siblings under the porch, he’d have taken the entire family to hell with him. In her heart, she knew that he would have killed them all if he’d had the chance.
Instead of suppressing the memory, Bree let it play in her mind—and on her face. “So I know how this is going to turn out. He will get more and more controlling. You’ve probably already seen that.”
Grace stared, unblinking. Her head tilted a few millimeters. She wasn’t just listening now. She was hearing what Bree had to say.
Good.
Bree continued. “Soon, you won’t be able to leave the house without him. You won’t be able to answer a call without him listening in. He’ll check your phone and monitor your internet use. He’ll separate you from family. Won’t allow you to have friends. But no matter how hard you try to please him, he’ll still find a reason to get mad. You’ll smile at the clerk in the grocery store, and that’ll be enough to set him off.”
“He won’t let me go,” Grace said without contradicting any of Bree’s assumptions.
“I know.” Bree would not make promises. “But there are people who specialize in helping women like you start over.”
“I don’t know.” Grace bit off a piece of her cuticle.
“I can take you and your daughter to a shelter tonight. He won’t know where you are. You never have to see him again.”
Blood welled from beside Grace’s thumbnail. She shook her head and whispered, “I can’t. He’ll find me.”
Bree didn’t give her any bullshit about a restraining order, though she would be advised to obtain one. Killian may or may not obey it. “I’m going to have a counselor contact you to discuss your options. I’ll need your cell number.”
Grace shook her head hard. “No. I can’t talk to anyone.”
“So he’s already monitoring your phone.”
Grace looked away. Her cheeks flushed.
“A social worker will come here tomorrow.” Bree held up a hand to cut off any protest. “You’ll meet with them. It’s not optional. Your daughter’s welfare is at stake.”
“He doesn’t hit her.” Despite her protest, Grace’s voice lacked conviction.
“Maybe not. Yet. Even if he never does, she will suffer long-term effects from living with domestic abuse.”
“She doesn’t know.”
Bree lifted her eyebrows. “Do you really think she sleeps through the fights? She’s probably too afraid to get up. I lived with it for eight years. I heard every insult, every blow. Saw every black eye and swollen lip. Concealer can only do so much. Most children in homes where domestic violence occurs can describe the abuse in great detail. So, the social worker will come tomorrow, and you will talk to them or risk losing custody.”
A tear leaked from Grace’s swelling eye. “You can’t ...”
“My job is to serve and protect the citizens of this county. That includes your daughter.” Bree felt like a bitch, but the child had to come first.
Grace touched her split lip. “I’ll tell them I fell.”
Bree had no doubt she would do exactly that. “And bruised your throat?”
Grace paled.
“They’ll have my report detailing your injuries.” Bree had taken a photo when she’d first arrived. “Your neighbor saw him strike you. Regardless, he took a swing at me. For that, he’ll be charged.”
Grace pressed a palm to the base of her bruised neck.
“He won’t be back tonight. Get some rest. Ice your face.” Bree paused, waiting for Grace’s eyes to connect with hers. “You could pack your things. I could have you out of here tomorrow before he makes bail.” If Killian was arraigned first thing in the morning, by the time he obtained bail and all the paperwork was processed, it would be afternoon at the earliest. “Be brave, Grace. Do it for Riley.”
Grace hugged herself harder but didn’t respond. If the young woman stayed, Bree knew her department would be back here, responding to another violent incident. What would they find that time?
Hoping she was wrong, hoping Grace also saw the glaring neon light, Bree went outside and pulled her phone from her duty belt. The call to social services went to voice mail. Bree left a message, but she wouldn’t wait for them. She’d drive Grace and Riley to a shelter herself if necessary.
Juarez approached, gesturing to his patrol car. Killian glared at them from the back seat. “We just got a 911 call. Couple of hikers found a dead body out near the Echo Road Bridge. What do you want me to do with him?” He gestured toward Killian.
“Take him to the station and put him in holding.” Bree turned toward her SUV. “Then meet me at the bridge.”
“We’re charging him?” Juarez asked.
“Yes, but not right now. If that call is accurate, then I’m going to need you at the scene. We might not be able to process him for a while.” She gave Juarez a pointed look.
The deputy nodded. He understood. Technically, they had forty-eight hours to charge Killian. Bree didn’t like to stretch that time, but there were cases where exceptions needed to be made. Bree had to convince Grace to leave. She would do everything within her power to get the woman into a DV shelter and out of Killian’s reach. She refocused on her deputy. As hard as it was, she needed to switch gears and clear her head for another call. “Meet me at the scene.”
Juarez gave a quick nod. Though a young deputy, he’d proved to be a fast learner with plenty of empathy, ethics, and common sense.
Bree slid into her vehicle and used her radio to call dispatch. “Sheriff Taggert en route to Echo Road Bridge.”
Next, she would call criminal investigator Matt Flynn, who was also her live-in boyfriend, for lack of a better word, while simultaneously preparing herself to deal with a dead body.