“I don’t…” I paused. “I don’t know,” I told him, moving directly toward the backdoor.

“Check. Lock,” he ordered.

Backdoor secure, I headed toward the front saying a shaky, “Okay.” Then I asked, “Is this the kind of thing Olivia would do, you know, to play with me?”

“Never played this dirty but wouldn’t put it passed her,” he answered.

Freaking great.

“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” he said softly.

“Okay,” I replied, locking the front door then I told him, “I’m all locked.”

“Good, baby, see you soon.”

“Okay.”

Then he ended the call, I moved back to the kitchen, my eyes going to the microwave to note the time. Then I tried to control the fear that was mixing with the anger should this be Olivia as I dealt with the final preparations for dinner.

Eight minutes had elapsed when it happened. I knew this because I had just checked the microwave for the fiftieth time.


And what happened was I heard gunshots, six of them, one after another sounding like they were right in front of my house.

I stared at the window a nanosecond before I crouched down behind the island as more gunfire sounded and it penetrated my frozen with terror mind that it sounded like return fire.

As the gunfight continued, I came to my senses, scuttled in a crouch to the landline phone, reached up, grabbed it, hit the on button then dialed 911.

“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”

“Gunshots outside my house,” I whispered.

“Where are you, ma’am?”

I started to give my address as I heard noise at my front door and I stopped, staring through my house at it, paralyzed with fear.

“Ma’am,” the operator called, “please confirm you’re safe and your address.”

“Someone’s –”

The door opened and Brock walked in, his overcoat on one side dusted with snow. He turned, slammed the door, locked it and prowled to me holding his gun in his hand.

I didn’t, as I usually did, admire him in his work clothes. Today, a nice, thick black turtleneck (one, incidentally, I bought him for Christmas and I say one because I bought him three), jeans that weren’t nearly as faded as his normal jeans, a great black belt that the sweater was tucked behind (and that was the only part of the sweater tucked, I didn’t know if he did it on purpose or what but for some reason I thought it looked awesome) and a handsome, tailored, black wool overcoat (which, also incidentally, Laura and Jill got together to buy him for Christmas and on him it was the bomb).

Although his work attire was only a nuance away from his non-work attire, when he got home, after greeting me, he never but never hesitated in taking it off, putting on faded jeans, no belt and, now that we were in the dead of winter, either a faded, long-sleeved tee or a thermal.

Now he prowled through the house toward me and I didn’t notice how hot he looked in his work clothes. I only noticed the dusting of snow on his overcoat and the gun in his hand.

How did he get that dusting of snow?

“Ma’am?” I heard the 911 operator call. “Are you with me?”

“That emergency?” Brock growled when he got to me, staring down at me still crouched by my kitchen counter.

I didn’t respond. He bent and pulled the phone out of my hand and put it to his ear.

“This is Detective Brock Lucas. I was just fired on and exchanged fire with an unidentified male…”

He kept talking but my mind blanked of everything but his words repeating in my head.

I was just fired on and exchanged fire…

I was just fired on and exchanged fire…

I was just fired on and exchanged fire…

I straightened as he continued to growl into the phone, his eyes on me but my thoughts were still elsewhere.

He had that snow on him because he threw himself to the ground to dodge bullets aimed at him in front of my house.

My man had thrown his beautiful body to the snow to dodge fucking bullets aimed at him in front of my fucking house.

And he had his gun in his hand because he’d had to return fire.

And I knew exactly who ordered that unidentified male to aim bullets at my man.

No.

Oh no.

I did not fucking think so.


Just like I lost it when Levi was at Brock’s house, I didn’t think.

I just moved.

And what I moved to do was snatch my keys off the counter and then I ran out of the house.

“Tess!” Brock shouted but I was gone.

Down the walk and in my car.

“Goddamn it! Tess!” I heard Brock shout from somewhere outside the car.

Car on, I didn’t even look and put the pedal to the floor.

I didn’t know how I got there and it was a miracle I made it without killing myself or anyone else. But I hit University then turned right then turned left on Yale then I drove like a demon through Donald Heller’s established, tidy neighborhood with its big houses on big lots, a path I had taken frequently for twelve years while dating and married to my shitheel of an ex but had not taken once in the last six and a half.

And I went there because I had no idea where Damian lived.

But I sure as fuck was going to find out.

I screeched to a halt at the curb, shot out of my car and raced through the snow in the yard to the front door, not noticing the headlights of the truck that followed me go out as it parked behind my car.

I banged on the door loudly, not letting up as I shouted, “Don, open the fucking door!”

A hand came from behind me, fingers wrapping around my wrist, halting my pounding as I felt warmth hit my back and heard whispered in my ear, “Tess, Jesus, baby, calm –”

Brock didn’t finish because the door opened and Donald was standing there.

His eyes flashed quickly back and forth and back and forth again between Brock and me then a tentative smile hit his mouth as his eyes started to light and he whispered, “Tess, honey, my –”

He didn’t finish because I shouted, “Where is he?”

Donald blinked, his gaze moving between Brock, who now had my wrist and arm wrapped around my belly, his with it, and me then he asked, “Who?”

“Your fucking scum of the earth, shithead, asshole of a son, that’s who!” I shrieked.

He blinked again then I heard, “Tess?” and looked beyond Donald to see fucking, fucking, fucking Damian standing several feet behind him in his father’s foyer.

And that was when I lost it again.

Tearing free of Brock, I shoved straight passed Donald and launched myself at Damian, arms raised, nails bared, ready to scratch his motherfucking eyes out.

His hands came up to defend himself and he took a step back but I didn’t get there.

A steel arm clamped around my waist, I let out an “oof!” and was hauled back against Brock who then clamped another steel arm around my shoulders and chest at the front.

At my ear, he whispered, “Cool it, sweetness.”

“Fuck cool! ” I screeched and struggled against his hold at the same time planting my feet as he tried to pull me back. Through this my eyes stayed glued to Damian. “You fucking dick! ” I kept screeching.

“What on –?” Donald asked with soft shock at my side but I shouted over him.

“It wasn’t enough hitting me?” I asked and Brock froze at the same time I sensed Donald doing the same. “It wasn’t enough raping me?” I kept shouting and disregarded the noise that came from Donald that sounded like someone landed a blow to his stomach. “Then you call me out of the blue, fucking lie to me a-fucking- gain after you lied to me so many fucking, fucking times I lost count with the women you screwed who were not me, and told me your father was sick as a ploy to get me to meet you.”

“My God,” Donald whispered but I kept yelling.


“Then you keep contacting me when I asked you over and over and fucking over again not to call me and you drag me into your shit with the DEA and the FBI and the police and now you send someone to shoot at my boyfriend in front of my house! ”

Damian kept his eyes glued on me too and when I quit shrieking, he said softly, “Tess –”

“Fuck you! ” I spat. “Fuck you, Damian. What did I do? What did I do but fall in love with you? What did I do to deserve you treating me like a piece of garbage and then… then…

finally when I have something good in my life, something beautiful… finally when I feel fucking safe you move to destroy that too?”

“Honey, I didn’t do –” Damian started but I cut him off.

Screaming at the top of my lungs, the sound so shrill it pierced the space like a dart, I shouted, “Don’t you dare call me honey! ”

Damian held my eyes. Brock held me close. I glared at Damian, heat boiling through my veins, through my brain, so fucking hot, it was burning me alive.

Then Damian pulled his eyes from mine, turned his head to the side, his face grew concerned and he started to move that way saying, “Dad.”

“Don’t,” Donald ordered and I tore my eyes from Damian to see Donald standing at the wall of the foyer, hand pressed against it, that hand clearly holding him up. His face was pale, his eyes on his son wounded and I hadn’t seen him for awhile but he’d always seemed younger than his years, his humor and love of life making him that way. But in that moment he looked beyond his seventy-two years and well into his nineties.

At the sight of him, a wave of pain rolled through me, my hands went to Brock’s arms, my fingers curling around, one at my chest, one at my belly and Brock’s arms got tighter.