Page 3 of Shadowed Witness (The Secrets of Kincaid #2)

Another overdose.

The whole place reeked of cigarette smoke and weed, but neither of those had killed Ashley Harrison.

Detective Eric Thornton ignored the memories this scene called up.

And the nausea. With gloved hands, he lifted a baggie from the home’s scarred kitchen table.

Remnants of a powdered substance coated the corners.

He placed it in an evidence bag. The lab would verify what they were looking at.

Meth, likely laced with fentanyl, if his suspicions were correct.

There’d been way too much of the stuff floating around Kincaid lately, judging by the uptick in ODs over the last couple of weeks.

The medical examiner was still waiting for toxicology results on several of the victims, but the few finalized reports he’d sent Eric’s way indicated fentanyl-laced methamphetamine was likely responsible for the deaths.

Where was it all coming from? Kincaid was a small town, a significant drive from any major cities or interstates. Weed was common enough—meth too, unfortunately. But fentanyl was relatively new to the area. And so much more dangerous.

Though it had been wreaking havoc on much of the country for years, Eric had held out hope that the synthetic opioid would skip over his hometown. So much for that.

He really should have known better. It had only been a matter of time until a greedy dealer succumbed to the lure of additional profit either through direct sales to willing customers or through cutting a more costly drug with the cheaper and more potent opioid—with or without the user’s knowledge.

But the consequences of using a drug with unknown or unexpected potency were often deadly.

Paramedics had been able to revive the last victim, but Ashley Harrison hadn’t been so lucky. The thirty-four-year-old had been stone cold by the time someone claiming to be a concerned neighbor called in a wellness check.

He hated calls like this one. Too late to save the victim of an obvious overdose. Too little evidence to bring the dealers to justice—usually anyway. But he’d do his best.

Randi Owens, the patrol officer who’d found Ms. Harrison’s body, leaned in the front door. “Medical examiner will be here in fifteen.”

Good. The sooner the ME removed the body, the sooner Eric could finish evidence collection and get out of this place. Afterward, the family would have to be notified, if she had any.

Based on the contents of the small house, he’d guess she had a couple of kids, and he hurt for them.

The neighbor who’d called in the well-check hadn’t mentioned them, but it was possible the deceased shared custody with a father who lived elsewhere.

He hoped that was the case—that her kids hadn’t spent the night with their mom dead on the couch and just assumed she was passed out when they left to catch the school bus this morning.

He couldn’t make the call on time of death, but his guess was that she’d been gone for more than a few hours.

Something in another room crashed. He and Randi exchanged looks. They’d searched the house already and found no one. He slipped his gun from its holster and jerked his head toward the hallway. She nodded, her weapon already in hand too.

Eric led the way down the short hallway, breathing silently through his mouth to avoid the stench emanating from the bathroom.

He quickly cleared it and the first bedroom while Randi covered him.

They moved to the second and smaller of the bedrooms. A wooden chair now lay toppled under an open window where rain was beginning to blow inside.

Something or someone had knocked the chair over.

Considering they’d seen no sign of a pet and the window had barely been open an inch when they checked this room earlier, he’d put his money on a someone.

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.