Dozer (Spartan Elite #3)

Chapter 1

Kenzi

The bright morning sunlight spills through the oversized windows of my townhouse, washing over canvases that lean against nearly every wall.

I’d in part chosen this townhouse due to the windows and natural light streaming in.

The artwork is mine, something I’m proud of.

Bright cobalt blues collide with violent streaks of crimson, a sunflower explodes from a galaxy, a large black raven perches on the hood of a vintage Mustang.

I paint what I see and how I am feeling.

Of course, none of the art or colors match.

Each one is as individual and unique as I am.

That's precisely how I like it. My father would call my place chaotic; my older brother would shrug and call it mine. He accepted me for who I am, with no expectations to change or judgement for my quirkiness. Sometimes, he’d look at me with a bewildered gaze and shake his head before embracing me in one of his bear hugs.

His hugs would darn near break my bones.

I smile at the thought as I cross the living room balancing a fresh mug of coffee in one hand and a paintbrush I forgot to rinse three days ago in the other. The paint has hardened to the bristles and I’m debating whether to try and wash it or toss it.

"Don't judge me," I tell the brush. “It’s not like I meant to abandon you.”

Dexter, stretched across the back of the couch like he's the one who pays the mortgage, opens one green eye when he hears my voice as if he is trying to decide if I’m worth fully waking for.

"I wasn't talking to you."

The orange tabby yawns dramatically before turning his back on me.

"Fine. Be that way."

Military kids learn early that home isn't a place. It’s not four walls and a front door.

Home, is whoever unpacks boxes beside you every few years.

Home is your family; houses are merely shelter.

That’s how my childhood was spent. By the time I'd graduated high school, I'd lived in seven states, overseas in Germany, and in enough identical base housing to recognize floor plans before I walked through the front door.

Most base housing is identical to the one next door, with drab beige or white walls and strict rules about not painting or decorating.

They want the house to be exactly the same when you move out, and sometimes moving happened suddenly.

Every house we’d lived in had looked exactly the same to me.

My father had strict rules for us growing up.

The house reflected him and his leadership.

Every lawn was perfectly mowed, all the beds neatly made the second we got up in the morning, and we never went to bed with dirty dishes in the sink.

While my father liked order, my mother liked routine. The Army made sense for our family because it demanded both. It made sense for them. Me? I’m so different from my parents and brother, I’ve wondered more than once if I was adopted.

This townhouse is the first place I've ever owned.

There are no inspections, no housing office or rules about what I can or cannot hang on my wall.

No one to tell me command hooks aren't allowed on the drywall. I hang up art, my art, all over the walls, and I painted one accent wall emerald green simply because I could, and because it’s my favorite color.

My kitchen chairs don't match and neither does my cabinet full of dishes, most of which I bought at thrift stores and estate sales.

I have bookcases laden with books and nicknacks.

The shelf nearest my couch is about as chaotic as the rest of my home.

It holds forensic anthropology textbooks while also displaying vintage cameras I've rescued from thrift stores.

A LEGO Saturn V rocket stands proudly beside a human skull replica I purchased during graduate school.

People tend to assume those two hobbies are mutually exclusive.

They aren't.

At least not in my opinion.

I wander toward the kitchen, absently humming Queen under my breath as "Don't Stop Me Now" plays from the record player near the windows.

The music skips.

Again.

I sigh.

"I know. I know. I'll replace the needle." I say to absolutely no one.

Dexter looks offended by the interruption.

"You've never appreciated Freddie Mercury."

He blinks slowly at me. I’ve never met anyone as judgmental as my cat.

"It’s not your fault, really. You just have terrible taste."

The cat sneezes.

I consider that a rebuttal.

The coffee maker beeps behind me.

I frown.

Why is it beeping? I already have coffee. Did I brew another pot? Confused, I look around the kitchen. One mug sits on the windowsill, another beside the sink, I remember bringing a third upstairs with me.

One is in the microwave. The one in my hand makes five. Five. I’ve made five cups of coffee in the last couple hours.

"...Huh." I do have A.D.D., I remind myself not for the first time today. I blame that for the fact that I’ve made coffee every time I walked through the kitchen that morning.

That tracks. Really. My mind rarely travels in straight lines.

It pinballs. One thought will bounce off another until somehow, I've started researching Roman aqueducts while trying to update antivirus software. I’ll pick up a mug to take to the sink intent on doing dishes and somehow find myself cleaning out the garage.

Last Tuesday I spent three hours reading about medieval plague doctors after wondering why quarantine lasted forty days. I still am not entirely sure how I got there. I learned fascinating things, though. That counts for something.

Filling my newest mug with hot coffee, I wander toward the spare bedroom I converted into my office.

Three monitors glow atop an L-shaped desk, external hard drives sit in labeled bins and half-built computer towers occupy one workbench.

The opposite wall holds easels instead of filing cabinets, and bright acrylic paints crowd shelves beside forensic reference books.

Most people need separate spaces for science and creativity.

I've never understood why. Forensics isn't just science, it's storytelling. There’s a story behind every fingerprint, blood spatter and corrupted hard drive. I’ve solved epic mysteries with the evidence left behind on skeletons. And, given every victim I’ve worked with a voice.

With, not on, because even if their soul has left, there is part of them left behind.

And, they all want the same thing. Someone to listen and speak for them. It's a good thing I've always been good at listening, even when the people doing the talking can't speak anymore.

My brother used to tease me about that.

"You treat dead people like they're gonna answer back."

I'd laugh before responding, "that’s because they do."

Ryan would raise one skeptical eyebrow. "That's concerning, Kenz. You are hearing voices from dead people."

"Not with words, silly." No matter how I tried to explain it, he never quite understood. I can still hear his laugh and picture the crooked grin that got him out of trouble more times than I can count.

He was ten years older than me and my first hero.

He was my teacher in more ways than one.

It was Ryan who taught me how to throw a football, how to change a tire, and how to throw a punch without breaking my thumb.

Our dad was almost always gone. He was deployed for more than half of our childhoods, and if he wasn’t deployed, he was at a training exercise, in the field or at a military school.

After a particularly hard combat deployment, he returned home but left a big part of himself behind.

After that, even when he was home, he wasn’t present.

Ryan became more than my big brother, but also my sudofather.

He also taught me that duct tape could fix almost anything. Almost, anything.

Some things stay broken. My heart can't be pieced back together with duct tape. I would have tried anything to take away the pain. But I learned the hard way, duct tape doesn't fix everything.

Afghanistan made sure of that.

Blinking back the tears that come with the memory of Ryan, I look around trying to find anything to take my mind off the wave of grief pouring over me. My gaze drifts toward the hallway.

Near the front door hangs an empty lanyard.

For nine years it held my Department of Defense identification badge. Every morning I clipped it around my neck without thinking. Now the hook sits empty. It's been three weeks and my hand still reaches for it before I leave the house.

Habit is funny that way. Muscle memory outlives necessity. It took a week before I got up and got ready for work automatically. Another week before I stopped setting my alarm. But, I still find myself reaching for my ID and token.

I look away before the familiar ache settles too deeply.

Life in government service has taught me one universal truth.

The mission always changes. Sometimes without asking whether you're ready for it to.

Administrations rotate every four years and with them, priorities change.

Money switches hands. Politics happen and everyday people are caught in the crossfire.

Dexter trots into the office, jumps gracefully onto the desk, and immediately sprawls across my keyboard. I glare at him. He purrs.

"You know..." He closes his eyes as if intentionally ignoring me. "...there are literally thousands of places in this house to nap."

He purrs louder.

"I see we've chosen emotional manipulation." The purring intensifies. I sigh dramatically. The little noises he is currently making sounds like an Ewok. "I am but your humble servant."

If anyone walked into my townhouse right now, they'd probably assume I've finally lost my mind. I’ve spent the morning talking to my cat and to paintbrushes. Earlier, I apologized to a computer before wiping its infected hard drive.

None of that seems particularly strange to me.

Besides...