Page 1 of Finding Haven (Haven #2)

Five years ago

I have spent most of my life hating death. Coming from a family of law enforcement officials, the need to protect those around me was ingrained from a young age. The world has always been an ugly place, and it seems to only get worse with each passing year.

I always knew I would follow in my father’s footsteps, just as he followed in his father’s.

I was born and raised in the town of Hartridge, South Carolina, and when a family has been around as long as mine has, people expect certain things from you.

While my parents would have supported any dream I decided to chase, the Mercers were known for being in various forms of military service and law enforcement.

When you’re the middle child of three, you tend to fade into the background and follow the path of least resistance.

In my case, that meant protecting the innocent.

My father was always closed off when it came to discussing work.

I learned at a young age not to ask about his day, and the few times I had, he never cared to divulge any details.

It wasn’t something I gave much thought to.

It took becoming fully immersed in the day-to-day life of being the one enforcing the law to understand how challenging it can be.

Sometimes, it feels impossible to return home and pretend everything is fine when you’ve spent the day witnessing death, destruction, and abuse.

Tonight, I can’t pretend like everything is fine.

I would give anything to be able to wake up from this nightmare, to be able to pinch myself or splash cold water on my face and have everything return to normal. But tonight hasn’t been some terrifying dream that I can wake up from when it’s over.

Everything that happened tonight was real. There’s no going back. I should've been more prepared. I should’ve seen the signs of distress and acted without hesitation. But I haven’t been in the best frame of mind lately, and I allowed my personal struggles to cloud my judgement.

Willowbend Bridge was a Hartridge town landmark, the old structure stretching across a flowing river with large willow trees hanging over either edge.

Growing up, the bridge was known for being a picturesque backdrop for things like engagements and prom photos.

Recently, it has become a focal point for accidents and suicide attempts.

On any other night, I would have taken cautious steps towards the man as he stood on the other side of the safety guard, leaning his body forward over the near-freezing water below as he held on to the rail.

I would have spoken kind words with a soothing voice.

I would have told him that the dark days are temporary, that he’s not a burden.

I would have encouraged him to focus on the bright aspects of his life, the people he loves that he would be leaving behind, and all of the amazing things he still has to look forward to.

My own heart has been shrouded in so much darkness lately that I couldn’t give him the words he needed to hear.

Nothing kind and encouraging came to mind when I saw him leaning over the edge.

A tightness coiled in my stomach as I watched him, and for a brief moment, I imagined what it would be like to take his place.

To be able to find a way to escape all of the demons I’ve been battling. To find a way out of the storm.

My partner, Ryan, had already climbed over the guardrail by the time my momentary haze lifted.

Squad cars were working to shut down the bridge, keeping traffic away as the situation was dealt with.

I could barely hear the voices of my fellow squad mates as I inched towards my best friend.

I couldn’t hear what was being said between them, but I could see the compassion in Ryan’s gaze as he talked to the stranger.

The man was shaking his head, his attention locked on the river below.

Before I could get my mind to focus, and before I could get close enough to save either of them, the man’s grip slipped.

Ryan’s hand shot out to grab for the stranger, but the man had been leaning too far forward.

He was taller and bigger than Ryan, and there was no way to stop his fall, but that didn’t stop my partner from trying.

My stomach sank and a scream caught in my throat as I watched my best friend disappear over the edge of the bridge alongside the stranger, both of them crashing into the fast-flowing river below.

I spent hours, along with a small group of fellow first responders, searching the water, rocky outcrops, and surrounding area for any signs of life, but they were gone.

On top of tonight’s incident, the hours spent back at the station dealing with reports and medical and psychological evaluations, I also had to deliver the death notification to Ryan’s family. Something I never thought I would do.

As soon as Tessa opened the front door and saw me standing there, she knew something was wrong.

It’s something we’re told to teach our spouses and loved ones about from the very beginning.

If another officer shows up at the house while we’re at work, something is wrong.

It took every ounce of remaining strength I possessed not to crumple right along with her.

I stayed until she was able to fight back the tears just enough for us to call Ryan’s parents.

They were traveling out of state, and though it wasn’t exactly the kind of information anyone wanted to hear over the phone, it didn’t seem right to wait to tell them.

Now, my feet feel like they’re weighed down by lead as I trudge up the front porch steps of the old craftsman-style house I share with my fiancée, Tiffany.

An invisible vice is wrapped around my chest, my lungs fighting for steady gulps of air with each step that I take toward the front door.

The nausea churning in my gut thickens with who’s waiting for me on the other side.

Lately, the feeling has become a regular occurrence. As terrible as today has been, stepping inside this house somehow feels much worse. Like the moment I close the door behind me, everything will settle into a place of permanence.

The house is just a rental, a temporary resting place until she finds our forever home. The wedding date isn’t for another year, but she’s been talking about looking at houses for months now. If I’m being honest, I’ve been dragging my feet.

Tiffany isn’t the woman I thought she was.

She became an entirely different person as soon as I slid that fucking ring on her finger.

Like somehow that piece of jewelry gave her the right to scream at me and belittle me every chance she got.

Growing up, I was taught to never raise my voice or my hands against a woman.

It’s something I’ve stood by my entire life, but holding on to that piece of myself means tolerating her abuse without lashing back.

I know that I should call off the wedding and walk away.

But what kind of man would that make me?

Would I be seen as weak for not being able to handle her abuse, or would I be considered strong for ending the relationship when I know it isn’t right?

Our families are expecting us to get married.

Hell, sometimes, it feels like the entire town is expecting it.

I don’t want to hurt her. But the alternative is hurting myself, and I’m not sure which is worse.

Heaving a sigh, I give myself one more minute to let the weight of tonight’s events settle over me before I push open the heavy front door. The smell of tomato sauce and garlic immediately assaults me, and my stomach flips at the thought of eating. There’s no way I could handle it right now.

On any other night, I would take a moment to remove my boots and gear before making my way farther into the house. This time, I don’t bother. All I want to do is numb the pain with a few glasses of whiskey. Nothing can ever be as simple as that, though.

The sound of clanging dishes and frustrated breaths alerts me to her whereabouts.

I walk down the small entry hallway and round the corner to the kitchen to find Tiffany, the last person I want to see right now.

If her heavy sighs and the way she slams cupboards closed as she cleans up the mess from cooking are any indication, I’d say that her wrath is about to boil over .

I can’t deal with this right now.

I can’t deal with her right now.

“Where the fuck have you been?” she growls through gritted teeth, spinning around to face me. She leans her slender body back against the countertop, her arms crossing over her chest as she waits for my response.

I don’t have the strength to tell her. I honestly don’t think she would even care.

She has always hated my friendship with Ryan, claiming that I spend more time with him than I do her.

Considering she never wants to hear about the darker aspects of my job, can she blame me?

I don’t enjoy discussing the horrible things I witness far more frequently than any person should have to.

There are times when I just need to get everything off of my chest, and she’s never once given me the space to do that.

Death definitely falls into the “do not discuss” category.

Regardless of whether it was a civilian or a colleague of mine, she would find some way to spin it as just another excuse for me not being home when she wanted me to be.

She would likely spew some bullshit about how this is what I signed up for.

As if watching my partner die is somehow just an expectation because of my career.

Cold-hearted bitch isn’t a term that should come to mind when thinking about the woman who shares my bed. The woman I’m supposed to be marrying and building a life with.

Ignoring her, I reach into the cupboard above the refrigerator to pull down a lowball whiskey glass and a bottle of Buffalo Trace. The amber liquid is nothing fancy, but it’ll get the job done all the same.

“Really, Zack? You’re going to ignore me? I spent hours cooking a nice dinner, and you couldn’t even bother to tell me that you’d be late!” Her seething voice sends a shiver down my spine like nails on a chalkboard.

I wouldn’t exactly call boiling pasta and heating jarred sauce hours of cooking, but I know better than to say anything. The molten anger and frustration lacing her voice should be enough to make me respond. Maybe I should feel bad for coming home late or feel somehow responsible for her behavior.

But I don’t.

My compassion and desire to be a good man for her have long since disappeared. I’ve been on the receiving end of her vitriol one too many times to care about living up to her expectations.

For a brief moment, I think about acknowledging her and telling her why I’m home late, but considering how all of our interactions have gone over the last few months, I doubt it would make a difference.

I pour a few fingers of whiskey into the glass and toss it back, savoring the way the slightly sweet and spicy alcohol burns my throat as I swallow.

“I’m so fucking sick of this, Zack. I don’t know why I even bother trying.

” The shrill tone of her voice causes my skull to throb with tension, the pressure only adding to the nausea swimming in my stomach.

We obviously have different definitions of the word.

Trying implies making a conscious effort to improve our relationship, which is something neither one of us has done for far too long.

I want to tell her to stop.

Stop trying.

Stop torturing us both.

But I don’t. My jaw clenches in an effort to keep the words to myself as I pour another measure of the mind-numbing liquid and set the bottle on the counter with more force than I intend.

Just as I’m raising the glass to my lips, she lets out a loud growl of frustration, tears the glass from my hand, and swipes the bottle from the counter.

“Is this all you fucking care about?” she screams. She holds up the glass and bottle, shaking them in my face.

No answer on the tip of my tongue will settle her rage.

I can’t speak the words that she wants to hear.

I can’t tell her that she is all that matters to me.

I can’t tell her that I’ll put her first or even that I’ll make an effort to change.

It would all be a lie, and the one thing that I can stand by and find comfort in is knowing that I have never lied to her.

I may not disclose everything that happens in my day-to-day life where work is concerned—she doesn’t want to hear it anyway—but I don’t lie to her.

The only person I lie to is myself.

I’m lying about being happy with my life.

I’m lying about being happy with her.

I don’t have the energy to do much of anything besides lose myself to the numbing buzz that only alcohol can provide.

Pointedly ignoring her, I turn away and head for our bedroom.

Her piercing voice follows me through the house, her words slicing away at the remnants of my soul as I strip off the layers of my uniform.

Each piece I remove feels like a weight lifted, yet somehow, I’m still struggling to breathe. Still drowning.

“I’m fucking talking to you, Zack.” Her face is red with anger, her eyes brimming with tears as she clutches the glass in her hand.

And I’m not listening.

Nothing she says is going to change what happened tonight. Nothing she says is going to bring back Ryan or save that stranger’s life .

It should have been me.

I’m leaning into the shower to turn on the hot water when the bottle of whiskey shatters against the wall, shards of glass slicing against the bare skin of my back as the spray of alcohol burns into the gashes.

Remnants of the bottle lay at my feet. I turn my head to see her staring at me, her shoulders rising and falling with heated breaths.

She fucking threw the bottle at me .

Holding her gaze, I step forward, and with my hands on her shoulders, I guide her backwards out of the bathroom before closing the door in her face.

Tomorrow, I’ll wake up and find my entire life changed.

Tomorrow, I’ll tell her it’s over, that our engagement is off.

But right now, I need to wash away the dirt and grime.

I need to wash away the trickles of blood running down my back and the bourbon stinging my flesh.

If only I could wash away my demons just as easily.