Page 105 of Fatal Pattern

He pinched the cigarette out before Damien set himself on fire.

When he returned to the hallway, the boy hadn’t moved. Still clinging to that doorframe like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

Calvin? Caleb? No, those weren’t right.

Corbin.

Stryker dropped to one knee. The boy’s skin had gone chalk-white, and a streak of grime marked his left cheek. His T-shirt sagged off his shoulders, the neckline pulled and darkened with stains.

“Corbin, right? I work with your daddy. I want to make sure everyone’s okay. Can you tell me what happened tonight?”

The boy’s grip tightened on the doorframe. His mouth opened, then closed.

“It’s all right,” Stryker said. “You’re not in trouble.”

“They got into a fight,” Corbin whispered.

“What was the fight about?”

A shrug. But as the boy shifted, Stryker caught sight of the bruises. Finger-shaped marks wrapped around Corbin’s arm. Another bruise peeked out from the neckline of his T-shirt. About the size and shape of adult thumbs pressed into small shoulders.

“How’d you get those bruises on your arm?”

Corbin’s eyes went wide, and his pupils dilated with sudden panic. He turned and bolted across the room, his bare feet slapping against the tile. The closet door slammed.

“Well, well. Look what we got here.”

Stryker rose and turned. Damien Sullivan leaned against the hallway wall, bloodshot eyes, cigarette ash dusting his badge hanging crooked on his chest.

Cold rage settled in his stomach. Not the hot flash of anger he might feel during an MMA fight, but something visceral. Deep-seated. This wasn’t just a domestic disturbance. This was a cop. His former partner. Beating his family.

“Damien Sullivan.” His hand drifted to his cuffs. “You’re under arrest.”

Damien barked out a laugh. “For what? Having a drink in my own house?”

“Domestic battery. Child abuse.” He pulled the cuffs free. “Turn around.”

“You got some nerve, King. Coming into my house, making accusations.” Damien shoved away from the wall, stumbled a half step. “That boy falls down all the time. Kids are clumsy.”

“Those are grip marks, Damien. Fresh ones.”

“Prove it.”

“I said turn around.” He caught Damien’s wrist, twisted, drove him chest-first into the wall.

A photo dropped, shattering on tile. Damien swung back with his elbow. Stryker ducked, pinned the arm up behind him. The first cuff snapped shut as defiance turned to heavy breathing. The steel clicked home with a finality that he hoped Corbin would hear.

Damien’s forearm was thick as a fence post, forcing him to wrestle the second restraint wider, though it wouldn’t quite latch.

“You have the right to remain silent—”

The screen door squeaked open behind him.

The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. He didn’t need to turn around to know who had entered. The air itself seemed to thicken, pressing down on his shoulders like a lead blanket. Sergeant Dean Barclay’s presence filled the space, sucking oxygen from the room.

Barclay stepped closer. His boots scraped against the tile. The sergeant’s eyes locked onto the dangling cuff in Stryker’s hand, then shifted to Damien’s face.

“Domestic battery and child abuse charges.” Stryker kept his stance square, shoulders back. “I’m placing Sullivan under arrest.”