Page 24 of Cuffed (Everyday Heroes 1)
“No one said you couldn’t.” His lips quirk into a cocky smile, a clear indication he’s regained his footing. “But it’s the least I could do to help out with your . . . situation.”
“Apparently, porn is what will help you with yours,” I say nonchalantly, needing to get one last cheap shot in, before I turn and walk outside to wait for him in the fading daylight.
Within minutes, Grant strolls out of the drugstore with a bag in his hand and stops before me. We stare at each other for a moment.
“Viagra, Emerson? Really?” he asks, disdain owning his tone.
“I can go back in and wait for your prescription, if you’d like?” I bat my lashes.
“Cute. Very cute.”
“You’re not the only one who can dish it out.”
“So it seems.”
A new set of looky-loos slow their pace as they walk by, curious what crime I committed, and despite my little show inside, I’m not a fan of being the center of attention.
“Are we done now?” I huff as I hold my hand out for the bag.
We wage a visual war on the sidewalk in front of CVS. The lights on his squad car are still flashing and lighting up his face as he looks down at my hand and then back to me. “You tell me, Emerson. Are we done yet?”
“It’s just a box of tampons.”
“Oh, this is about so much more than just a box of tampons,” he says, voice serious, eyes locked on mine. We stare at each other for a minute more, both of us wondering who will give in first. My wanting to believe the lie I tell myself that this is only about feminine hygiene products against his waiting for me to realize I’m wrong.
“May I have the bag, please?”
“Of course you can, so long as we get one thing clear.” He steps closer to me and leans in. “Nothing’s changed, Em. Don’t you remember? I can always tell when someone is lying. Especially you. That’s one thing about me that’s still the same, so it’s best you don’t forget that. Otherwise, next time will be a whole lot worse than a box of tampons you don’t need.”
I grit my teeth as he leans back, those brown eyes of his laden with humor as he places the bag in my hand. “Is that a threat, Officer?”
“No. It’s a promise.”
I glance around the quiet cul-de-sac as I step out of my cruiser. The street is a perfect picture of fictional Mayberry with its pristine cut lawns, blooming flowerbeds, tidied houses, bikes left on driveways, glimpses of swing sets above the tops of backyard fences.
Nate eyes me as we double-check the address of the house in front of us: 12662 Serenity Court. It’s tan stucco with brown trim, above average in size. A minivan is parked in the garage with the door open, and an SUV is parked behind it. The garage is clean but cluttered with toys on one side and a table saw and drill press on the other.
Normal.
But that’s the problem. Sometimes it’s the normal that’s deceptive.
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.
