Page 104 of Fatal Pattern

The gray fog pressed against him like wet cotton, muffling everything except the drone of a television. The anchor’s voice cut through the haze, sharp and clinical.

“. . . murder at Union Correctional Institution. Damien Sullivan, serving life for a workplace mass shooting that claimed the lives of four officers . . .”

Damien Sullivan.

The name yanked Stryker backward through time like a fishhook through his skull.

Rain drummed against the patrol car’s roof in a steady rhythm that matched his thumb tapping his thigh. Stryker sat alone behind the wheel, watching the convenience store through streaks of water that blurred the neon signs. The duty belt dug into his hip where the seat belt crossed it. The department needed to redesign these seats. Cut deeper wells, extend the buckles. Stop jamming duty belts into officers’ ribs every shift.

A year without Damien as his partner. A year since Barclay had pulled his former partner into day shift, promising promotions and better assignments. Stryker knew what that meant. Bigger fish to fry. More important cases to bury.

The radio crackled to life, the dispatcher’s voice tinny through the static.

“Unit 47, respond to domestic disturbance.” She rattled off the address. “Multiple prior calls to this location.”

“Speak of the devil,” he muttered to himself.

Yeah, he knew that address. Sullivan. Six calls in eight months, and each one had carved something deeper out of Michelle Sullivan’s face. The bruises had spread like storm clouds, and her stories had worn thinner than paper.

“Unit 47, copy. En route.”

He reached for the volume knob and turned it down until the radio became background noise. The wipers scraped against the windshield as he pulled out of the lot, slapping water away before the next sheet hammered down.

The modest Florida house sat in darkness when he arrived. Porch light out. Damien should know better. The front door stood wide open behind the metal screen door. The neighborhood slept around him, windows dark, driveways empty except for the occasional sedan.

The silence bothered him more than shouting would have. Domestic calls usually came with noise. Screaming, breaking glass, neighbors complaining. This quiet felt wrong, like the pause before a scream.

Rain soaked through his uniform shirt as he approached the front door. Cold water ran down his neck. He positioned himself to the side of the doorframe, hand resting on his holstered weapon.

“Millie Beach Police. Damien Sullivan? Mrs. Sullivan?”

Nothing.

His fist slammed against the aluminum door frame. The metal clanged through empty rooms, but no one stirred. No shuffle of feet across linoleum. No muffled responses from the back bedroom. Just rain drumming the roof and the refrigerator’s electric wheeze.

Protocol demanded he wait for backup. Secure the perimeter.

But he’d heard Michelle Sullivan’s voice crack over the phone too many times. He’d seen the fear in her eyes when she insisted everything was fine, just a misunderstanding.

Stryker opened the screen door and stepped inside.

The stench hit him first. Whiskey and cigarettes mixed with something sour that might have been vomit. Michelle Sullivan lay sprawled across the couch, one arm dangling toward the floor, knuckles brushing an overflowing ashtray. Her face was turned toward the cushions, but he could see the fresh bruise blooming purple-black across her left cheek. The color of rotting fruit.

A soft shuffle made him turn.

A boy peeked around the hallway doorframe. Sandy blond hair stuck up at odd angles, and when the boy’s mouth opened slightly, Stryker caught the gap where front teeth should be. Six, maybe seven years old. The kid’s eyes were too wide, too alert for this time of night.

The same terror he’d seen in that closet. The same way that little girl had pressed herself into the corner, trying to disappear into the darkness.

Stryker’s mouth went dry. He stepped over Michelle’s outstretched arm and eased toward the hallway.

“Hey there.” Stryker crouched down to the boy’s eye level. “Where’s your daddy?”

The boy didn’t let go of the doorframe, but his finger pointed toward the master bedroom.

“Okay. I’ll be right back.”

Stryker found Damien on the floor beside the bed, not on it. A lit cigarette dangled from his mouth, ash scattered across his uniform shirt. The ember glowed orange in the dim light, close enough to his skin to leave burns. Passed out cold, reeking of whiskey.