Page 5

His eyes trailed to the closet door. Shut. It had been open before. He nodded at it. Randi’s eyes hardened. Eric crept toward the closet, keeping himself positioned so that if someone was hiding inside, they wouldn’t have a direct shot at him.

He leveled his gun and threw open the door.

“Police!”

A small boy—five, maybe six years old—crouched inside.

Eric caught his breath and quickly holstered his gun.

The kid had snot crusted below his nose, and his clothes smelled like they hadn’t been washed in a while.

He crouched down to get on eye level with the boy. “Hey, I’m Eric. What’s your name?”

The kid just stared at him.

“You hungry?”

He didn’t respond for a moment, then gave an abrupt nod. Of course he was hungry. Eric knew what hunger looked like. Felt like.

“You like nuggets?”

Another nod.

“Okay.” He slipped a mini chocolate bar from his pocket and handed it to the boy. The distrust in the kid’s eyes didn’t waver, but the tightness around his mouth eased.

And Eric recognized him. From church. The realization sucked the air from his lungs.

“Lucky?”

Lucky—Eric couldn’t remember his real name—blinked and inclined his head.

“Where’s Dion?”

At the mention of his brother’s name, Lucky’s defenses flew up. He pushed the candy bar back at Eric.

Eric raised his hands in a placating gesture. “No, you keep it. Dion’s not in trouble. I just want to make sure he’s okay.” They stared at each other a moment before he decided to try again. “Is your brother okay?”

Lucky looked down at the candy bar and shrugged.

Eric traded glances with Randi. The officer nodded and joined them on the floor—crouching like Eric, rather than sitting, to avoid unnecessary scene contamination and whatever else was on this floor. She’d stay with Lucky and keep him away from his mother’s body while Eric made the necessary calls.

While Randi pulled out her phone and started rambling about a litter of puppies in her brother’s barn, Eric stood, barely resisting the urge to clap Lucky on the shoulder. The boy needed support, but he radiated defensiveness. An almost-stranger’s touch wouldn’t be welcome.

He backtracked through the house, refusing to look in the direction of Ms. Harrison’s body as he passed through the living room. How could a mother care so little about her kid? Kids. Dion was out there somewhere too.

God, let him be okay.

He stepped outside, stripping off his gloves. Once in the fresh air, he dialed the station. “Darla, can you get somebody over here with a kid’s meal?” He turned and stared at the chipped paint on the door. Rain dripped down his neck, but he ignored it. “Nuggets with extra fries. Boy’s toy if there’s an option. And we’ll need a social worker.”

Thirty minutes later, Eric watched the CPS caseworker’s car pull away with Lucky. He shot up a prayer that he’d be placed with a good home—or, better yet, with a responsible family member.Maybe he’d be able to reclaim some of his childhood before it was too late.

But Eric knew the boy would always bear a scar from losing his mom so early. And who knew what else he’d experienced before her death? Neglect? Probably. Deprivation? Almost certainly. Though neither of those were true in every case involving a parent with an addiction, it happened far too often. Eric knew that from personal experience. And the hunger he’d seen in Lucky’s eyes had been more than one missed breakfast would account for.

Once the car disappeared from view, he pulled in a fortifying breath and headed back to the scene that would likely haunt him for days. But he’d gladly accept that for a chance to shut down even a tiny branch of this deadly industry. Illicit drugs had ruined far too many lives.

3

A couple of hours later,Eric logged the evidence he’d collected from Ashley Harrison’s house and headed for his desk. Tucked into a corner of the Kincaid police station, his “office” space was small, but it served its purpose, and he was grateful to have it.