Page 263 of Off Limits: The Firsts

Nate runs the plates while I keep an eye on our surroundings. When the check comes back clean, we exit the vehicle. I glance over to the neighboring house to the right and nod at the woman peeking out the window from behind the curtains.

“Is she the one who reported it?” Nate asks as we cautiously make our way up the driveway.

I nod to tell him yes but don’t confirm it aloud. “The caller wishes to remain anonymous.”

“Mm-hmm.”

It isn’t surprising considering the call is a 10-16—possible domestic disturbance with a minor involved.

The pathway is lined with river rocks. Interspersed into the multi-colored gray stones are some that are painted. There are a few that look like ladybugs, others have indiscernible drawings on them, and still others with words written across the top, all obviously done by a child.

For the briefest of moments, I flash back to being a kid and making fun of Emmy for painting the rocks on the side of her house. Just like a thousand other kids have done. There’s no correlation. Yet, I find it funny how she’s been gone for so long but, in the last few weeks, it’s as if she’s everywhere and there is a memory of her in everything I see.

Nate’s knock on the door is loud against the afternoon quiet. Standing about ten feet back with one hand on the butt of my gun, I wait for someone to answer, listening for the slightest sounds of distress inside the house as my eyes scan back and forth over my surroundings.

“Who is it?” a male voice asks on the other side of the door.

“Sunnyville Police Department. We’d like to speak with you for a moment,” Nate says.

“About what?”

“Just want to make sure everything is all right in there. Neighbors heard some screaming going on, so we’re going door-to-door around the cul-de-sac checking each house to make sure everything is okay,” Nate lies in perfect good-cop fashion.

“Everything’s fine here. Thanks for your concern.”

“That’s good to hear, sir, but I need you to open up so we can check for ourselves. It’s a procedural thing.”

There’s movement to the right of me that catches my eye. A blonde-haired little girl peeks over the windowsill so all I can see is from her nose up. I smile softly to try to let her know we’re here to help. She stares at me before ducking out from beneath the curtain and disappearing from sight.

“Jesus Christ,” the man on the other side of the door mutters before the deadbolt slides and the door opens about a foot. “Everything’s fine. See? Are you happy?” His voice is loaded with irritation as we get a glimpse of him for the first time. I take a mental rundown: Dark hair, blue eyes, a drip of sweat sliding down his temple. He’s wearing a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows and tie loosened around his neck. His shirttail is untucked, and as hard as I try, I can’t get a clear view of his hands so I can see what his knuckles look like.

“Thank you, sir. Your name please?”

“Ren Davis, but people just call me Davis.”

“Thank you, Mr. Davis,” Nate says, taking a step closer and placing a hand on the door to open it a little farther.

The man grunts in disdain. “You think I’m lying?”

“No, sir,” Nate’s smile is broad and disarming. “I’d just hate to lose my job for not crossing all the T’s and dotting all the I’s, if you know what I mean?”

“Goddamn government workers,” he grumbles.

“Exactly.” Nate moves his free hand from the butt of his gun and holds up two fingers behind his back.

There are two other people he can see in the house.

“I didn’t hear any yelling.”

“I didn’t ask if you did,” Nate responds, making sure the man understands he’s on our time; we’re not on his. “May I see the rest of the people in the house?”

The man’s head startles at the request. “I’m home al—”

“I just saw a little girl run by,” Nate interrupts. “I’d like to speak with her.”

Davis exhales loudly, his irritation written all over his face before he steps back to reveal more of the scene behind him. There is a dark stain on the carpet where it looks like the plant sitting on the pony wall at his back had been knocked over and the dirt has yet to be vacuumed. From what I can see of it, the house seems clean, which makes that smear of dirt stick out.

“Keely, get over here,” he yells, feet shifting, jaw clenched. With his movement, I can see one of his knuckles has blood on it and the others look a bit red. Nate notices it as well, and he slides a glance my way as I take a step forward.