Sheriff Tomlinson parked the car, turning off the motor. His mind drifted, dredging up memories best left buried. He could see it, hear it, smell it.
“Don’t go in there, Dan.”
The Sheriff stared at his Deputy, eyes blurred, bloodshot from lack of sleep. He’d spent the last twenty-four hours desperately searching for his wife and infant son.
“Get out of my way.”
The room was like all sleazy motel rooms. It smelled of stale cigarettes. Cheap whiskey.
He’d stored all that in his subconscious as his conscious mind reeled backwards from the images searing his brain. So much blood. Her beautiful black hair was fanned out over the pillow, surrounding her face like a black halo of light. A terrible sickness clawed at his stomach as he looked into the gaping hole in her chest. Someone had cut out her lying, cheating heart.
Shaking his head to clear his vision, Tomlinson slammed the door to the car, his footsteps striking angry patterns in the snow. Ives didn’t know anything. Not yet anyway. Nothing he could prove.
Slamming the front door he looked at the young man slouched on his couch. Trash. That’s all he was. Just like his mother. He kicked the feet off the couch arm. “Get your ass up.”
Guy opened bloodshot eyes, gleaming with hatred only a child could feel. “What the fuck you want?”
Tomlinson reached out and jerked him up, pushing into his face. “I want to know where Charity Froste is. And you’re gonna tell me.”