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  Because Silvervale only dictates having a small police department, each of us are trained to do a variety of duties. And being that there are only thirteen of us in total, the personal disputes regarding who does what and when are few and far between.

  Shaking his head with irritation, Riggs points to his heavy glass office door only half open behind me. “Jesus Christ. Help him in, will you?”

  My partner, Rob Marlin, struggles to balance three paper cups full of police station coffee.

  Rob enters, places the cups down on Riggs’ desk and reminds, “Mark Karnes is a dead deal—literally. Let it go, Cole,” he orders. “Riggs agreed we did what we could to talk the suicidal bastard down.”

  Rob and I have worked together for a little over a year. We don’t have much in common, other than our job, and we rarely talk about our personal lives.

  “This isn’t about Mark Karnes. It’s about someone else,” Tyler asserts.

  Someone else could be anyone else. A lot of folks in this county don’t like cops. Most don’t matter, as they tend to be of the shadier variety: women beaters, drunks, the occasional drug dealer, and the like. Included in this are the rebellious teenagers who wake each morning with trouble in their minds. I know their thoughts because as a teenager myself, I had the same.

  Pushing, I ask, “Then if this isn’t about the piece of shit, what’s going on?”

  “Richard Hanson is up for parole. The board will no doubt grant it. He’s served eleven years of his thirteen-year sentence and he’s been a model prisoner during that time.”

  “Yeah? And?”

  “And what?” Riggs snaps. “You’re telling me you don’t know where this is going?”

  “I don’t,” I return. “Guy did his time and did it as quietly as you say, I don’t see the issue.”

  “I may not have known you back then, but I know he was your first taste of what it meant to work on the streets.”

  “And that was in California,” I clip. “He’s still in California. What’s the point?”

  “Jesus,” Rob utters.

  When I look at Rob, sitting at my left, he takes a sip of his coffee, not hiding his smirk above its rim.

  “Christ, Cole. Just be vigilant, will you?” Riggs exasperates.

  This isn’t my first day on the job, nor is it the first time someone I helped put away has been up for release. There’s more.

  “Why did you really call me in here? It’s late and I have shit to do.”

  “Yeah, getting to that,” my boss claims, pulling out a file, opening it, then laying it down in front of me. “This one here has me nervous.”

  As I look up, I note Riggs’s face has paled. Countless times my boss has expressed his concern. But I don’t think in the four years I’ve been here, that I’ve ever seen him nervous.

  Grabbing the file off the desk, I look down at the mug shot taken years ago.

  “Marcos escaped,” he adds before I can inquire.

  Marcos escaped.

  The words are said but they don’t infiltrate. The vile man is a lunatic, a certifiably insane piece of shit who targets kids.

  How the fuck did he escape?

  “How’s that possible?” I question in disbelief. “He was serving a life sentence inside a maximum security prison.”

  “He walked out,” Riggs hisses. “Son of a bitch literally up and left with a few others who were being released.”

  “Again. How the fuck does that happen?”

  “Fuck knows. The press hasn’t gotten hold of this yet. And I haven’t told the others here. Got the call only twenty minutes ago. You were listed in his file for alert, of course.”

  “This is shit,” I hiss.

  “It is,” Riggs agrees. “Thought you should know before so much as stepping outside this building.”

  Fuck me.

  Marcos—a convicted child rapist. A man found guilty of kidnapping, assault with a deadly weapon, and a variety of other charges that no longer matter. He’s walking the streets, free as the day his sick soul was given life.

  Years ago, after I became a cop, I heard about what happened the next town over from here. I came back to my hometown briefly—to ensure all was back as it should be—as much as that was possible. This city has never seen such a heinous crime and being that so many knew the man who committed it, they were all stricken with grief.

  “He’ll come for me,” I tell Rob and Riggs, pushing the file back after only needing a quick look inside.

  The quick glance to the single solitary mug shot was enough to sharpen the blades of my memory.

  The last time I saw Marcos was his last day in court. It’s also a day I’ll never forget.

  Once the guilty verdict was read aloud, Marcos stood and charged the room until the guards wrestled him to a corner. As his body thrashed to break free, he vowed revenge against me and all those I love. He threatened to end my life then rape and maim any family I had—boys and girls. He swore I hadn’t seen the last of him. Even cuffed and chained at the wrists and ankles, he was a threat. Because of the fear and chaos he’d created in the courtroom, he never saw the Taser gun that took him down coming.

  “No doubt he’ll come for you,” Rob confirms. “We were all there. We heard what Marcos said. He’s out for your blood. And he’s insane.”

  “Which means he doesn’t care how long it takes to get what he wants. He’ll stay focused on this,” Riggs states.

  “It’s a five-hour car ride to here,” I remind. “Which means he’ll need time, money, and luck to make the trek this far north.”

  Saying what I hadn’t wanted to, Rob adds, “He’ll wreak havoc in his path. People he comes in contact with aren’t safe.”

  “The press will help keep folks informed. Luxson County is small. He’s from there. People will pay attention. If he’s seen, someone’ll call it in. We’ll wait and take our opportunity.”

  Riggs, grabbing the file and adding it to many on his run-down desk, asks, “Refresh my memory. He have parents around here? Family or friends?”

  “Kid sister, but they were never close,” I explain.

  Ginger Marcos is a crackhead whore. She had been called up to the stand as a character witness for the defense. However, the prosecuting attorney shredded her credibility before he’d asked her his first question. She unintentionally hurt her brother’s case more than she intended to help it.

  “I’m all he’s gonna remember in what happened. And I don’t imagine he’s taken these last years to find peace. He hasn’t forgiven me.”

  “I suggest you take some time off. Lay low,” Riggs puts in, while Rob nods his agreement. “We can get you transferred temporarily a county over, if you’d consider that.”

  “I won’t.”

  “There’s nothing here for you, Cole,” Riggs points out. “You have no wife, no family—no ties to this city at all. Why won’t you at least consider it?”

  Acknowledging this concern, but not answering his question, I promise, “I’ll be careful.”

  “You’ll be careful?” Riggs repeats low, lifting his fingers to his bottom lip and rolling it in contemplation.

  If Smokey and The Bandit’s Buford T. Justice had a real life son, Riggs would be that product. Thick neck, full belly, round face, and short temperament is his makeup. Though, when he cares about someone, he watches for their best interest every time. And the men in his office are those he cares the most about.

  Cursing under his breath, he sits back in his chair and narrows his eyes. “I don’t suppose I can force you gone.”

  “Nope,” I return, sitting up and grabbing the coffee Rob brought in. Before sucking in the vile taste, I add, “And if you try, it’ll piss me off.”

  “Better be pissed than dead,” Rob clips from the right, finally wading in with his take. “Jesus Christ. If this were me, I’d be in the wind.”

  “You have a wife. You have a daughter to protect. I have me.”

  Standing from his desk and marked with disdain, Riggs
steps back and crosses his arms over his chest. “Then I guess we’re done here.”

  “For now we are,” I agree.

  Rob stands when I do, then turns to leave. As he opens the heavy glass office door, my head whips around, hearing panic just outside the office.

  “I’ve already told you I’m here to see Mason,” a desperate woman’s voice ushers.

  The thick wooden blinds of the office windows are drawn, as they always are when meetings occur. Other than the office door, none of us can see what’s going on in the pit. Judging by the use of my first name, there can only be one of two people waiting outside calling it.

  My little sister, Tiffany, or Katie Dyer.

  “Mason?” Janice, our unit secretary, questions. “Honey, who’s Mason?”

  Janice knows my first name, but either she can’t place it now or can’t believe someone other than my sister has the nerve to use it.

  The female in question shrieks again—this time louder, “Mason!”

  Rob’s eyes hit mine and his lip twitches as Janice tries to calm the angry guest. “Ma’am, I think you should calm down.”

  Janice’s circle is small. Her life is simple. She reads, plays bingo, and spends her evenings with her two dogs and very spoiled husband. She treats the guys in the office like the sons she never had. The women, the same, like the daughters she never had.

  This must be testing her every nerve.

  With impatience, a voice I finally fully recognize quietly and calmly replies, “I’m here to see Mason Cole. I need you to find him for me. I need to see him right—”

  “What’s your name, love?” Janice queries.

  “Katherine Dyer.”

  When I make my way out of the office, Janice is standing quietly next to Katie. She’s patting Katie’s back as Katie holds a tissue to her mouth, heaving a heartrending sob into it.

  Officers in uniform and business suits converse in groups around their desks. Phone lines ring nonstop. Bystanders loiter around desks anticipating their statements. A few kids in cuffs sit on a long bench on the far wall, waiting to be freed or booked.

  Chaos ensues around us, but I only have eyes for the woman who looks just as lost as she has for the last fifteen fucking years.

  Witnessing her sadness and taking it on as my own, I demand, “Someone wanna tell me what the fuck?”

  Katie’s head lifts, tears marring her beautiful eyes. Looking frantic and unable to form a coherent thought, she leaves the comfort of Janice’s side and rushes through the crowd, clearing a frenzied path toward me.

  Wrapping her arms around me, her chest slams against mine, taking us a few steps back.

  “Katie, what is it?” I question, running my fingers through the back of her blonde hair as her hold tightens around my waist.

  My partner, Rob, steps in from behind, arching his brow at the mess in my arms.

  Pulling back, Katie looks up and pleads, “Averie is gone. I can’t find her.”

  “Averie?”

  “My youngest daughter!” she shrieks. “She’s twelve. She came home from school this afternoon. I wasn’t home yet. I was getting Amelia from her study group. Our dog—” Katie chokes, the words not coming to mind as fast as the tears streaming down her face.

  “Slow down, Mrs. Dyer,” Rob soothes. “And tell us what we need to know.”

  “She’s gone! She’s not answering her cell. I’ve tried—again and again. The last I spoke to her was when she called to tell me about Duke, but I couldn’t understand what she was saying. When I got home, I figured it out because our dog—”

  “Janice!” I shout, looking around the room. Once I’ve caught her attention, Janice smiles small. I point to Katie while she continues talking to Rob and advise, “When we’re done here, keep her company. Or take her home.”

  “Mason, please!” Katie screams.

  Dragging Katie by the arm, I maneuver her around the station to my desk. No one takes a second look. The guys here are experienced. They have wives, those wives have friends. They get that a crying woman is not to be fucked with.

  Lowering my voice, I seat Katie in a chair and aim to calm. “We’ll find Averie. Tell me where you’ve already looked and where you think she could’ve gone.”

  Shaking her head, Katie’s desperation subsides and a mother’s calm worry takes over. She clutches her purse on her lap and looks over my head as she states, “I’ve checked the soccer fields, called her friends, my dad, and went through the mall.”

  “All right. That’s all good.”

  “Averie isn’t scared of anything. She could be anywhere.”

  Rob comes to stand next to Katie. Resting his hand on her shoulder, he questions, “Do you happen to have a recent picture of her? I can get copies and send out extra men to help you look.”

  “Yes,” Katie nods, pulling up her purse and grabbing her wallet. “I brought this in case.”

  Rob nods, smiles, and accepts the picture. Sure enough, Averie Dyer is the spitting image of her mother. I know because I’ve known Katie a long time. Averie’s about the same age as when I met Katie.

  “I’ll grab Sykes and Miles. They’re doing nothing, as usual,” Rob comments. Before he walks away, he looks down to Katie again. “She’s probably off somewhere, deciding how to feel about the loss of her pet.”

  “She loved him,” Katie tells Rob, her voice a hoarse whisper. “We all did.”

  Rob walks away and Katie turns back to me. She’s visibly tired and mentally exhausted. I haven’t seen her for over a week—since the bar and my night with Sabrina. I sure as fuck hadn’t expected to run into her like this.

  “Katie,” I call and her eyes move to mine. Relief is evident. “Give me your cell.”

  Her eyebrows furrow and she questions, “My cell? For what?”

  “In case I find her and she doesn’t have hers. I’ll have her call you from mine.”

  “Oh. Yes, please.”

  As I’m adding my number and taking hers, I also ask, “Can you tell me what Averie was wearing today?”

  With a mother’s speed and memorization, Katie goes into detail about what Averie wore to school this morning. She also laments that her daughter being twelve and into clothes as a preteen may be, Averie may have changed before leaving the house.

  Thirty minutes later, I find who and what I thought might be here.

  Katie told me everything she could about Averie in the short amount of time I gave her before taking off in my cruiser. I’d already decided to troll playgrounds and schools first. Kids, even some adults, gravitate to the memories, stability, or security childhood playgrounds and schools offer.

  As I approach, Averie sits alone in the middle swing of a long, tall swing set that’s cemented to the ground. Those to each of her sides are empty.

  “So, are you here to arrest me for running away?” she looks up from her swing to ask.

  “Should I be?” I question in lieu of an answer.

  Shaking her head, she aims her focus to the broken concrete ground that’s dusted with sand and insists, “I’ll tell you now, mister, I won’t go willingly.”

  I smile.

  A preteen pledging to resist arrest is funny. The scenario shouldn’t be, and wouldn’t be if it wasn’t her, but it is and she’s safe, so I don’t hold back a one-syllable laugh as I reassure, “I’m not here to arrest you.”

  “Safer for you,” she flips back, looking down, her long blonde hair blowing in swirls with the wind around her. “I play soccer.”

  “So you have a mean kick, then,” I assume.

  Nodding, she continues studying her feet. “I do.”

  No surprise, she’s every bit of Katie when she was this age. A little bolder maybe, but she inherited her mom’s smart-mouth and quick wit. At least the Katie I used to know had that in spades.

  Katherine Dyer doesn’t.

  “I’m here because your mom is worried about you,” I explain, taking a seat in the swing next to hers, doing it slowly to ensure I fit.
>
  “Am I in trouble? I mean, is Mom super mad?”

  “Not anymore,” I tell her. “She was worried sick, but she’s better now. She knows I found you.”

  When I’d pulled up to the school and spotted Averie right away, I quickly sent a text to Katie. I didn’t get a response, but didn’t take the time to wait for one.

  “I’m so totally gonna be grounded for this,” she tells me. “I hate being grounded.”

  “You probably earned that due,” I reply. “So, you wanna share why that was?”

  “Well, you’re here. You already talked to my mom and she told you why,” Averie smarts, kicking the rocks on the ground at her feet and giving herself a small push.

  “Your mom and sister have been looking for you.”

  “But not my dad,” she states, remiss. “He’s gone again.”

  “He’d be looking too, if he were here.”

  With added concern, she murmurs, “He’ll be really mad at me for making Mom worry.”

  I don’t personally know Thomas Dyer as a father, but everyone around here knows he loves his girls. They’re his world. If Averie had gone missing when he was home, today it would’ve been both Thomas and Katie standing at my desk. Wherever he is, and I’m sure Katie called him, he’s probably worried sick.

  “My dog died today,” Averie notes what her mother had explained. “His name was Duke. I’ve had him forever.”

  “Duke’s a good name,” I reply, using my feet to hold me still, while she continues using hers to slowly rock back and forth.

  “I found him in the garage. He was trying to get out.”

  “He may have been sick,” I give, not knowing much about dogs.

  “He was my best friend,” she decrees. “I have pictures of us together. He was born the same month and year as me. We probably have the same birthday, even.”

  Looking down, Averie’s toes are covered in dirt. She’s wearing flips-flops. Not the ridiculously yellow and pink-flowered type her mom once wore. These are black and glittery.

  “My mom is super sad.”

  Nodding, I agree. “She is. She loved Duke like you did.”